bmitted it is merely a jumble of figures. Why, the young man who
prepared it couldn't have known the difference between a debenture 5 and
a refunding 6!"

"Don't make me shudder, Piddie," says I. "Who was the brainless wretch?"

"Young Hollis, of course," whispers Piddie. "And it's not the first
occasion, Torchy, on which he has been found failing. I am sending some
of his books in for inspection."

"Oh, well," says I, "better Brink than some of the others. He won't take
it serious. He's like a duck in a shower--sheds it easy."

At which Piddie goes off shakin' his head ominous. But then, Piddie has
been waitin' for the word to fire Brink Hollis ever since this cheerful
eyed young hick was wished on the Corrugated through a director's pull
nearly a year ago, when he was fresh from college. You see, Piddie can't
understand how anybody can draw down the princely salary of twenty-five
a week without puttin' his whole soul into his work, or be able to look
his boss in the face if there's any part of the business that he's vague
about.

As for Brink, his idea of the game is to get through an eight-hour day
somehow or other so he can have the other sixteen to enjoy himself in,
and I expect he takes about as much interest in what he has to do as if
he was countin' pennies in a mint. Besides that he's sort of a
happy-go-lucky, rattle-brained youth who has been chucked into this high
finance thing because his fam'ly thought he ought to be doing something
that looks respectable; you know the type?

Nice, pleasant young chap. Keeps the bond room force chirked up on rainy
days and always has a smile for everybody. It was him organized the
Corrugated Baseball Nine that cleaned up with every other team in the
building last summer. They say he was a star first baseman at Yale or
Princeton or wherever it was he was turned loose from. Also he's some
pool shark, I understand, and is runnin' off a progressive tournament
that he got Mr. Robert to put up some cups for.

So I'm kind of sorry, when I answers the private office buzzer a little
later, and finds Old Hickory purple in the face and starin' at something
he's discovered between the pages of Brink's bond book.

"Young man," says he as he hands it over, "perhaps you can fell me
something about this?"

"Looks lite a program," says I, glancin' it over casual. "Oh, yes. For
the first annual dinner of the Corrugated Crabs. That was last Saturday
night."

"And who, may I ask,"