y pullin' an afternoon edition
out of my pocket. Bixby swoops down on me panicky.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" says he, pluckin' the paper out of my fingers. "But
may I put this outside? Mr. Runyon cannot stand the rustling of
newspapers. Please don't mind. There! Now I think we are ready."

I wanted to warn him that I hadn't quite stopped breathin' yet, but he's
off to the other end of the room, where a nurse in a white cap is
peekin' through the draperies.

Bixby nods to her and stands one side. Then we waits a minute--two
minutes. And finally the procession appears.

First, a nurse carryin' a steamer rug; next, another nurse with a tray;
and after them a valet and the private physician with the great Marcus
T. walkin' slow between.

He ain't so imposin' when you get that close, though. Kind of a short,
poddy party, who looks like he'd been upholstered generous once but had
shrunk a lot. There are heavy bags under his eyes, dewlaps at his
mouth-corners, and deep seams across his clean-shaved face. He has sort
of a cigar-ash complexion. And yet, under them shaggy brows is a keen
pair of eyes that seem to take in everything.

Old Hickory gets up right off, with his hand out. But it's a social
error. Bixby blocks him off graceful. He's in full command, Bixby is.
With a one-finger gesture he signals the nurse to drape her rug over the
chair. Then he nods to the doctor and the valet to go ahead. They ease
Runyon into his seat. Bixby motions 'em to wrap up his knees. By an
eyelid flutter he shows the other nurse where to set her tray.

It's almost as complicated a process as dockin' an ocean liner. When
it's finished, Bixby waves one hand gentle, and they all fade back
through the draperies.

"Hello, Ellins," says Runyon. "Mighty good of you to hunt up a wreck
like me."

I almost gasped out loud. Somehow, after seem' him handled like a mummy
that way, you didn't expect to hear him speak. It's a shock. Even Old
Hickory must have felt something as I did.

"I--I didn't know," says he. "When did it happen, Runyon?"

"Oh, it's nothing," says Marcus T. "I am merely paying up for fifty-odd
years of hard living by--by this. Ever try to exist on artificial sour
milk and medicated hay, Ellins? Hope you never come to it. Don't look as
though you would. But you were always tougher than I, even back in the
State Street days, eh?"

First thing I knew, they were chattin' away free and easy. Course, there
was Bixby all the time, sta