k and proceeds to hold an indignation meetin' in front
of my desk.

"Gwan!" says I. "Nobody's rockin' the boat but you. Go sit on your
checkbooks."

They just glares at me.

"Where is Old Hickory?" one of 'em wants to know.

"About now," says I, "Mr. Ellins would be finishin' the last of three
soft-boiled eggs. He'll show up here at nine-forty-five."

"Mr. Robert Ellins, then?" demands another.

"Say, I'm no puzzle editor," says I. "Maybe he'll be here to-day and
maybe he won't."

"But we couldn't find him yesterday, either," comes back an old goat
with tufts in his ears.

"That's a way he has these days," says I.

No use tryin' to smooth things over. It's Mr. Robert they'd been sore on
all along, suspectin' him of startin' all the wild schemes just because
he's young. I'd heard 'em, after they'd moved into the directors' room,
insistin' that he ought to be asked to resign. And what they was beefin'
specially about to-day was because of a tale that a Chicago syndicate
had jumped in and bought the _Balboa_, a 10,000-ton Norwegian freighter
that we was supposed to have an option on. It was the final blow. That
satisfied 'em they was being sold out, and their best guess was that Mr.
Robert was turnin' the trick.

I was standin' by, listenin' to the general grouch develop, and
wonderin' how long before they'd organize a lynchin' committee, when I
hears the brass gate slam, and into the private office breezes Mr.
Robert himself, lookin' fresh and chirky, his hat tilted well back, and
swingin' a bamboo walkin'-stick. When he sees me, he springs a wide grin
and grabs me by the shoulders.

"Torchy, you sunny-haired emblem of good luck!" he sings out. "What do
you think! I've--got--her!"

"Eh!" says I. "The _Balboa_?"

"The _Balboa_ be hanged!" says he. "No, no! Elsa--Miss Hampton, you
know! She's mine, Torchy; she's mine!"

"S-s-s-sh!" says I, noddin' towards the other room. "Forget her a minute
and brace yourself for a run-in with that gang of rag-chewers in there."

Does he? Say, without even stoppin' to size 'em up, he prances right in
amongst 'em, free and careless.

"Why, hello, Ryder!" says he, handin' out a brisk shoulder-pat. "Ah, Mr.
Larkin! Mr. Busbee! Well, well! You too, Hyde? Hail, all of you, and the
top of the morning! Gentlemen," he goes on, shakin' hands right and left
without noticin' how reluctant some of the palms came out, "I--er--I
have a little announcement to make."

"Humph!" snort