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Updated: May 20, 2025
Why, say, I expect there ain't half a dozen bachelors in town that's rated any higher on the eligible list than Mr. Bob Ellins. It's no dark secret, either. I've heard of whole summer campaigns bein' planned just to land Mr. Robert, of house parties made up special to give some fair young queen a chance at him, and of one enterprisin' young widow that chased him up for two seasons before she quit.
"Who do you guess, Mr. Ellins?" says I, grinnin'. "H-m-m-m," says he, rubbin' his chin. "I can't say I'm flattered. Thinks I'm an old crab, does he?" "I expect he does," I admits. "Do you?" demands Old Hickory, whirlin' on me sudden. "I used to," says I, "until I got to know you better." "Oh!" says he. "Well, I suppose the young man has a right to his own opinion.
And from a man who lunges at every shot and makes a 75-yard approach with a brassie Well, it was nothing short of maddening. I kept my temper, though. Can't say that my friend Ellins did. He had sliced into a trap on his drive, while I had topped mine short. We started the first hole with our heads down. Rutter and Staples were a trifle ostentatious with their cheerfulness.
And, as she stops for breath, it's about the first chance I've had to spring anything on her. Old Hickory hadn't told me not to use his name, and was I to blame if he'd overlooked that point? "Yes'm," says I; "I'll tell Mr. Ellins." "Who?" says she, steadyin' her wanderin' gaze. "Mr. Ellins?" "Old Hickory," says I. "He's president of the Corrugated Trust, ma'am." "Really!" says she. "How odd!
"By referring to the rules of this establishment, Mr. Ellins," says the Doc, speakin' cold and reprovin', "you will see that the general retiring hour is fixed at nine-thirty. At nine-forty-five the gas is all turned off." "What!" roars Hickory. "Think you're going to put me to bed at nine-thirty?" "You are at liberty to sit up in the dark, if you choose," the Doc comes back at him.
Plenty of roofs in sight, from five to ten stories lower than the Corrugated buildin', but no mashie maniac in evidence. And while they're scoutin' around I takes another squint at the ball. "Say, Mr. Ellins," I calls out, "if it was shot from a roof how do you dope out this grass stain on it?" "Eh?" says Old Hickory. "Grass stain! Must be an old one.
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?"
Course, so far as the force is concerned, he's just so much dead wood. Every shake-up we have somebody wants to fire him, or pension him off. But Mr. Ellins won't have it. "No," says he. "Let him stay on." And you bet Jonesey stays. He drills around, fussin' over the files, doing things just the way he did twenty years ago, I suppose, but never gettin' in anybody's way or pullin' any grouch.
Adoptin' female orphans of over thirty, or matin' 'em up appropriate is way out of my line. Suppose we pass resolutions of regret in Marion's case, and let it ride at that?" "At least," goes on Vee, "we can do a little something to cheer her up. Mrs. Robert Ellins has asked her for dinner tomorrow night. Us too."
As it is " He spreads out his hands. "Trust Old Hickory Ellins to find out whether you're any use or not," says I. "He don't miss many tricks. If you do get canned, though, you can make up your mind that finance is your short suit." Nearly a week goes by without another word from Mr. Ellins.
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