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"An inside tip on Tractions," says I, and sketches out how I'd got it. "Oh, I see now," says he. "That about Grebel? But what is melding? And this last 'Teg morf rednu'? I can make no sense of that." "Try it backwards," says I. "Why er by Jove!" says he. "Get from under, eh? Then then there is a slump coming. And with all that new stock issue, I'm not surprised.
Everybody knows Grebel and Larkin, and that they're the big wheezes in that Philly crowd. But what then? Had Grebel gone out to lunch? And was Larkin playin' penuchle? Thrillin', if true. Then comes this "Teg morf rednu" stuff. Was that Russian, or Chinese? "Heiney," says I, callin' the dough-faced food juggler. "Heiney," I repeats solemn, "Teg morf rednu." Not a smile from Heiney.
So Larkin was chuckin' something on the table, was he! But this other dope, "Teg morf rednu?" Say, I'd come back to that after every bite. I wrote it out on an envelope, tried runnin' it together and splittin' it up diff'rent, and turned it upside down. Then in a flash I got it. When Mr. Robert sails in from the club I was waitin' for him. He'd heard a rumor that Grebel was to retire soon.
And just for the fun of the thing I collected them twenty-eight pieces of yellow paper, carried 'em over to my lunch place, and spent the best part of my noon-hour piecin' 'em together. What I got was this, scribbled in lead pencil: Grebel out. Larkin melding. Teg morf rednu. "Whiffo!" thinks I. "What kind of a Peruvian dialect is this?" Course the names was plain enough.
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