I slips through Mr. Robert's
room and taps on the door of the boss's private office before blowin'
in.

And, say, it looks like I've arrived almost in time for the final
clinch. Old Hickory is leanin' forward earnest, his jaw shoved out,
his eyes narrowed to slits, and he's poundin' the chair arm with his
big ham fist.

"What I want to know, Jones," he's sayin', "is simply this: Are your
folks going to drop that Palisades road scheme, or aren't you?"

Course, I can't break into a dialogue at a point like that; so I closes
the door gentle behind me and backs against the knob, watchin' George
Wesley, who's sittin' there with his chin down and his eyes on the rug.

"Really, Ellins," says he, "I can't give you an answer to that.
I--er--I must refer you to our Mr. Sturgis."

"Eh?" snaps old Hickory. "Sturgis! Who the syncopated sculping is
Sturgis?"

"Why," says Mr. Jones, "Percey J. Sturgis. He is my personal agent in
all such matters, and this--well, this happens to be his pet
enterprise."

"But it would parallel our proposed West Point line," says Mr. Ellins.

"I know," says G. Wesley, sighin' weary. "But he secured his charter
for this two years ago, and I promised to back him. He insists on
pushing it through too. I can't very well call him off, you see."

"Can't, eh?" raps out Old Hickory. "Then let me try. Send for him."

"No use," says Mr. Jones. "He understands your attitude. He wouldn't
come. I should advise, if you have any proposal to make, that you send
a representative to him."

"I go to him," snorts Mr. Ellins, "to this understrapper of yours, this
Mr. Percey--er----"

"Sturgis," puts in George Wesley. "He has offices in our building.
And, really, it's the only way."

Old Hickory glares and puffs like he was goin' to blow a cylinder head.
But that's just what Hickory Ellins don't do at a time like this. When
you think he's nearest to goin' up with a bang, that's the time when
he's apt to calm down sudden and shift tactics. He does now.
Motionin' me to come to the front, he takes the envelope I hands over,
glances at it thoughtful a second, and then remarks casual:

"Very well, Jones. I'll send a representative to your Mr. Sturgis.
I'll send Torchy, here."

I don't know which of us gasped louder, me or George Wesley. Got him
in the short ribs, that proposition did. But, say, he's a game old
sport, even if the papers are callin' him everything from highway
robber to yellow