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I could guess what's happened; for I'd just seen Piddie come out of there looking satisfied and important. "Hello, sis!" says I. "Weepin' over your job so soon?" "Shut up!" says she. "Why, how pettish!" says I. "What was Piddie callin' you down for?" "What's that to you?" says she. "Who are you, anyway?" "Me?" says I. "Why, I'm the Corrugated's gen'ral grouch dispeller.
I guess we've known each other too long for that, eh?" And I holds out the friendly mitt. Honest, he's got a human streak in him, Piddie has, if you know where to strike it. The cast-iron effect comes out of his shoulders, the wooden look from his face. He almost smiles. "Thank you, Torchy," says he. "I er my congratulations on your new "
Well, there'd been a big rush on, and they was usin' Piddie more or less frequent, so I was gettin' used to his makin' a noise like a balloon, when one mornin' he come turkeyin' out to the brass gate and says to me: "Torchy, call up 0079 Broad and get the opening on Blitzen." "Sure," says I. "And if it touches seven-eighths don't you want to unload a couple of thousand shares?"
This meek, modest young thing, who looked like she wouldn't know a lip-stick from a boiled carrot, plannin' cold-blooded to throw up a nice respectable job and enter herself in the squab market! Why, I wouldn't have been jarred more if Piddie had announced that next season he was going to do bareback ridin' for some circus.
Then he grins. Say, it was that open face movement that made me suspicious maybe he wa'n't one of the Algernon kind, after all. But he had most of the points, from the puff tie to the way he spoke. It wa'n't the hot potato dialect Piddie uses; but it leaned that way. If he'd been a real Willie boy, though, he'd gone up in the air, and maybe I'd got slapped on the wrist.
You know lights dimmed, throbby music from the bull fiddle and kettle drums, and the ushers seatin' nobody durin' the act. Belasco stuff. The stage showin' the private office of the Corrugated Trust. It's a case of the big four in solemn conclave. Maybe you can guess the other three. Uh-huh! Old Hickory Ellins, Mr. Robert, and Piddie.
Piddie had ten of us lined up for the elimination test, and was puttin' us through the catechism and the civil service, when in pads Mr. Ellins you know, Hickory Ellins. Ever see our V. P.? Say, he uses up cloth enough in his vest to make me a whole suit. He's a ripe old sport, with a complexion like an Easter egg, and a pair o' blinks that'd look a hole through a chilled steel vault.
Anybody that can spell in that fashion I want to take a good look at." Think of the shock I gets when Piddie tells me them letters stand for Mildred Morgan. "Lady," says I, "I hates to say it, but the boss is waitin' to hand out a call-down to you. Don't you go to gettin' scared stiff, though; for the first cussword he lets go of I'll chuck a chair at him."
Then, all of a sudden here the other afternoon, Piddie comes trottin' out of the private office all flustered up and begins pawin' excited through the big bond safe. He's hardly got started at that before there comes three rings on the buzzer for him, and he trots back to see what the old man wants now.
Nobody home, and the front door left open. One of Piddie's finds, I expect." "Ring for him, will you?" says Mr. Robert. Poor Piddie! He was almost as fussed as Ruby had been. He admits takin' her on, but insists that she brought a good letter from some Western mill concern and was a wonder at takin' figures. "Keep her on them and out of here, then," says Mr. Robert. "And if you love peace, Mr.
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