u
ask?

Her bein' some pop-eyed helped you to remember Inez the second time.
About the size of hard-boiled eggs, peeled, them eyes of hers was, and
most the same color. They say she's a wise old girl though,--carries
on three diff'rent business propositions left by her late string of
husbands, goes in deep for classical music, and is some kind of a high
priestess in the theosophy game. A bit faddy, I judged, with maybe a
few bats in her belfry.

But when it comes to investin' some of her surplus funds in Corrugated
preferred she has to have a good look at the books first, and makes
Cousin Hickory Ellins explain some items in the annual report. Three
or four times she was down to the gen'ral offices before the deal went
through.

This last visit of hers was something diff'rent, though.

I took the message down to Martin, the chauffeur myself. It was a
straight call on the carpet. "Tell Cousin Inez the boss wants to see
her before she goes out this afternoon," says I, "and wait with the
limousine until she comes."

Old Hickory was pacin' his private office, scowlin' and grouchy, as he
sends the word, and it didn't take any second sight to guess he was
peeved about something. I has to snicker too when Cousin Inez floats
in, smilin' mushy as usual.

She wa'n't smilin' any when she drifts out half an hour later. She's
some flushed behind the ears, and her complexion was a little streaked
under the eyes. She holds her chin up defiant, though, and slams the
brass gate behind her. She'd hardly caught the elevator before there
comes a snappy call for me on the buzzer.

"Boy," says Old Hickory, glarin' at me savage, "who is this T. Virgil
Bunn?"

Almost had me tongue-tied for a minute, he shoots it at me so sudden.
"Eh?" says I. "T. Virgil? Why, he's the sculptor poet."

"So I gather from this thing," says he, wavin' a thin book bound in
baby blue and gold. "But what in the name of Sardanapalus and Xenophon
is a sculptor poet, anyway?"

"Why, it's--it's--well, that's the way the papers always give it," says
I. "Beyond that I pass."

"Humph!" grunts Old Hickory. "Then perhaps you'll tell me if this is
poetry. Listen!

"'Like necklaces of diamonds hung
About my lady sweet,
So do we string our votive area
All up and down each street.
They shine upon the young and old,
The fair, the sad, the grim, the gay;
Who gather here from far and near
To worship in our Great White Way.'