dog. He shrugs his shoulders and bows polite.

"As you choose, Ellins," says he.

Maybe he thinks it's a bluff; but it's nothing like that.

"Boy," says Old Hickory, handin' back the envelope, "go find Mr. Percey
J. Sturgis, explain to him that the president of the P., B. & R. is
bound under a personal agreement not to parallel any lines in which the
Corrugated holds a one-third interest. Tell him I demand that he quit
on this Palisades route. If he won't, offer to buy his blasted
charter. Bid up to one hundred thousand, then 'phone me. Got all
that?"

"I could say it backwards," says I. "Shake the club first; then wave
the kale at him. Do I take a flyin' start?"

"Go now," says Old Hickory. "We will wait here until five. If he
wants to know who you are, tell him you're my office boy."

Wa'n't that rubbin' in the salt, though? But it ain't safe to stir up
Hickory Ellins unless you got him tied to a post, and even then you
want to use a long stick. As I sails out and grabs my new fall derby
off the peg Piddie asks breathless:

"What's the matter now, and where are you off to?"

"Outside business for the boss," says I. "Buyin' up a railroad for
him, that's all."

I left him purple in the face, dashes across to the Subway, and inside
of fifteen minutes I'm listenin' fidgety while a private secretary
explains how Mr. Sturgis is just leavin' town on important business and
can't possibly see me today.

"Deah-uh me!" says I. "How distressin'! Say, you watch me flag him on
the jump."

"But I've just told you," insists the secretary, "that Mr. Sturgis
cannot----"

"Ah, mooshwaw!" says I. "This is a case of must--see? If you put me
out I'll lay for him on the way to the elevator."

Course with some parties that might be a risky tackle; but anyone with
a front name like Percey I'm takin' a chance on. Percey! Listens like
one of the silky-haired kind that wears heliotrope silk socks, don't
it? But, say, what finally shows up is a wide, heavy built gent with a
big, homespun sort of face, crispy brown hair a little long over the
ears, and the steadiest pair of bright brown eyes I ever saw. Nothing
fancy or frail about Percey J. Sturgis. He's solid and substantial,
from his wide-soled No. 10's up to the crown of his seven three-quarter
hat. He has a raincoat thrown careless over one arm, and he's smokin'
a cigar as big and black as any of Old Hickory's.

"Well, what is it, Son?" says he in one o