Robert
Mantell bang of yours. Now ring up one of them bench-warmers and show us
the Baron!"

But, say, you might's well try bluffin' your way through the fire lines
on a brass trunk check, "You'll find the manager's office two doors to
the left, gentlemen," says he.

"Much obliged for nothin'," says I.

Course, there wa'n't any use registerin' a kick. Orders is orders, and
we was on the wrong side of the fence. Mallory and I takes a turn
through the corridors and past the main dinin'-room, where they keeps an
orchestra playin' so's the got-rich-quick folks won't hear each other
eat their soup.

We was tryin' to think up a new move. I was for goin' out somewhere and
callin' for the Baron over the 'phone; but Mallory's got his jaw set now
and says he don't mean to leave until he has some kind of satisfaction.
He's kind of slow takin' hold; but when he gets his teeth in he's a
stayer.

We knocks around half an hour, and nothin' happens. Then, just as we was
pushin' through the mob into the Palm Room I runs into Whitey Buck. You
know about Whitey, don't you? Well, you've seen his name printed across
the top of the sportin' page that he runs. And say, Whitey's the smooth
boy, all right! Him and me used to do some great old joshin' when I was
on the Sunday editor's door.

"Hello, Whitey!" says I. "Who you been workin' for a swell feed now?"

"That you, Torchy?" says he. "Why, I took your head for an exit light.
How's tricks?"

"On the blink," says I. "We're up against a freeze out, Mr. Mallory and
me. You know Mallory, don't you?"

"What, Skid Mallory?" says he, takin' another look. "What a pipe! Why,
say, old man, I want you the worst way. Got to hash up a full-page
sympose knockin' reformed football, and if you'll take off a
thousand-word opinion I'll blow you to anything on the bill of fare.
Come on in here to a table while we chew it over. Torchy, grab a garcon.
Sizzlin' sisters! but I'm glad to root you out, Skid!"

He was all of that; but it didn't mean anything more'n that Whitey sees
an easy column comin' his way.

Mr. Mallory wa'n't so glad. "Sorry," says he, "but whatever football
reputation I ever had I'm trying to live down."

"What!" says Whitey. "Trying to make folks forget the nerviest
quarterback that ever pranced down the turf with eleven men after him?
Don't you do it. Besides, you can't. Why, that run of yours through the
Reds has been immortalized in a whole library of kid story books, and