t back of the Exchange. And is old Connolly chief
down there still?"

"Yes, Sir," says he.

"Give him my regards when you get back," says I, "and tell him Torchy
says he's a flivver."

The kid grins enthusiastic.

"By the way," I goes on, "who's he sendin' out with the Nash
work--Gedney Nash's, you know?"

"Number 17," says he, "Loppy Miller."

"What!" says I. "Old Loppy carryin' the book yet? Why, he had grown kids
when I wore the stripes. Well, well! Cagy old duffer, Loppy. Ever ask
him where he delivers the Nash business?"

"Yep," says the youngster, "and he near got me fired for it."

"But you found out, didn't you?" says I.

He glances at me suspicious and rolls his eyes. "M-m-m-m," says he,
shakin' his head.

"Ah, come!" says I. "You don't mean that a real sure-fire like you could
be shunted that way? There'd be no harm in your givin' a guess, and if
it was right--well, we could run that birthday stake up five more;
couldn't we, Mr. Ellins?"

Old Hickory nods, and passes me a five-spot prompt.

"Well?" says I, wavin' it careless.

The kid might have been scared, but he had the kale-itch in his fingers.
"All I know," says he, "is that Loppy allus goes into the William Street
lobby of the Farmers' National."

"Go on!" says I. "That don't come within two numbers of backin' against
the Traction Buildin'."

"But Loppy allus does," he insists. "There's a door to the right, just
beyond the teller's window. But you can't get past the gink in the gray
helmet. I tried once."

"Secret entrance, eh?" says I. "Sounds convincin'. Anyway, I got your
number. So here's your five. Invest it in baby bonds, and don't let on
to Mother. You're six to the good, and your job safe. By-by!"

"What now?" says Old Hickory. "Shall we try the secret door?"

"Not unless we're prepared to do strong arm work on the guard," says I.
"No. What we got to frame up now is a good excuse. Let's see, you can't
ring in as one of the fam'ly, can you?"

"Not as any relative of Gedney's," says Old Hickory. "I'm not built
right."

"How about his weak points?" says I. "Know of any fads of his?"

"Why," says Mr. Ellins, "he is a good deal interested in landscape
gardening, and he goes in for fancy poultry, I believe."

"That's the line!" says I. "Poultry! Ain't there a store down near
Fulton Market where we could buy a sample?"

I was in too much of a rush to go into details, and it must have seemed
a batty performance to Old Hicko