ar how you came to get that big order, and about some
of the interesting things you saw over there, just as you've told me."

I had hopped up and was holdin' the gate wide open, givin' Skid all the
honors, and Mr. Robert was escortin' him out to the elevator, when I
notices that this Popover party has got his eye on the boss and is
standin' right where he's blockin' the way.

"Hey, Poppy!" says I in a stage whisper. "Back out! Reverse yourself!
Take a sneak!" But of all the muleheads! There he stands, grippin'
his hat, and thinkin' only of that lost job.

"All right," Skid is saying; "but remember now, no floral tributes, or
gushy introductions, or sitting in the spotlight for me at
this--er--er---- Well, as I'm a living mortal!" He gets this last out
after a gasp or two, and then stops stock still, starin' straight in
front of him.

"What is it?" says Mr. Robert. "What's up?" And we sees that Skid
Mallory has his eyes glued to this waiter shrimp.

"In the name of all that's good," says he, "where did you come from?"

You can't jar Popover, though, by any little thing like that. When he
gets an idea in his dome it's a fixture there. "I would wish to
speak," says he, "with Mr. Ellins."

"Yes, yes, another time," says Mr. Robert hasty.

"But see here!" says Skid, still gazin' steady. "Don't you remember
me? Take a good look now."

Popover gives him a glance and shakes his head. "Maybe I serve you at
the club, Sir," says he.

"Club be blowed!" says Skid. "The last time I saw you you were serving
a machine gun, six miles east of Mustapha. Isn't that so?"

"Oh, Mustapha!" says Popover, his eyes lightin' up a little. "On the
hill just beyond where the bridge was blown up? You came at the
night's end. Oh, yes!"

"I knew it!" exclaims Skid. "I'd have bet a thousand--same curly hair,
same shoulders, same eyes. Ellins, here's that lone hero I was telling
you about. Here!"

"But--hut that's only Mike," says Mr. Robert, gazin' from one to the
other. "Used to be a waiter at the club, you know."

"I don't care what he used to be," says Skid, "or what he is now, I
want to shake hands with him."

Popover he pinks up and acts foolish about swappin' grips; but Skid
insists.

"So you beat 'em out in the end, did you?" Skid goes on. "Just
naturally put it all over that whole bunch of Turks, didn't you? But
how did it happen?"

"I don't know," says Popover, fingerin' his hat nervous. "I am very