"We're discovered," says I. "Here's someone that hints polite how
we're a bunch of strong-arms organized to rob the widow and orphan of
their daily bread."

Mr. Robert takes one sniff, then holds it at arm's length while he runs
it through. Gets a chuckle out of him, too.

"It's rather evident," says he, "that Mrs. Theodore Bayly Bagstock
doesn't approve of us at all--though just why is not quite clear."

"That's easy," says I. "This Inter-Lake Navigation that she's beefin'
about was one of them little concerns we gathered in last fall. Paid
something like fourteen, and our common at three and a half don't seem
so good to her, I expect. Still, she got a double on her holdings by
the deal, and with the melon we're goin' to cut next month--"

"Suppose, Torchy," breaks in Mr. Robert, tossing back the letter, "you
answer the lady in your own direct and lucid way. You might suggest
that we are neither highwaymen nor the Associated Charities, using any
little whim of sarcasm that occurs to you."

I'd just thought out a real snappy come-back too, and was dictatin' it
to a stenographer, when Old Hickory happens to drift by with his ear
out. He stops short.

"Hold on," says he. "What Mrs. Bagstock is that?"

"Why, the peevish one, I expect, sir," says I.

"Let's see that letter," says he.

I passes it over.

"Huh!" he goes on, rubbin' his chin reminiscent. "I wonder if that
could be--er--young man, I think I'll answer this myself."

"Oh, very well, sir," says I, shruggin' my shoulders careless.

Must have been half an hour later when Old Hickory calls me into the
private office, and I finds him still gazin' at the scented note.

"Torchy," says he, glancin' keen at me from Tinder his bushy eyebrows,
"this Mrs. Bagstock seems to think we are using her badly. As a matter
of fact, those Inter-Lake shareholders were lucky. We might have
frozen them out altogether. You understand, eh?"

I nods.

"But I can't put that in a letter," he goes on. "It could be explained
in a personal interview, however."

"I get you," says I. "I'll 'phone for her to come around."

"No!" he roars. "You'll do nothing of the sort. What the rhythmic
rhomboids put that into your head? I don't want to see the woman.
I'll not see her, not on any pretext. Understand?"

"I think so," says I.

"Then get your hat," says he.

"Yes, sir," says I, edging out.

"Just a moment," says Old Hickory. "You are to explain to Mrs.
Ba