e's a wreck now,--long, thin face, with the cheekbones almost stickin'
through, slumped in shoulders, bony hands, and a three months' crop of
mud colored hair stringin' damp over his ears and brushin' his coat
collar. Why, he looked more like he ought to be sittin' around the
waitin' room of some charity hospital, than tryin' to butt in on the
time of one of the busiest men in New York.

"It's a matter that ought to go before the president," says he, "and if
he isn't busy I'd like very much to----"

"Say, old scout," says I, "you got about as much chance of bein' let in
to see Mr. Ellins as I have of passin' for a brunette! So let's come
down to cases. Now what's it all about?"

He ain't makin' any secret of it. He wants the concern to make him a bid
on an option he holds on some coal and iron lands. Almost comes to life
tellin' me about that option, and for the first time I notice what big,
bright, deep sunk eyes he's got.

"Oh, a thing of that kind would have to go through reg'lar," says I.
"Wait; I'll call Mr. Piddie. He'll fix you up."

Does he? Well, that's what Piddie's supposed to be there for; but he
don't any more'n glance at the flannel shirt before he begins to swell
up and frown and look disgusted. "No, no, go away!" says he. "I've no
time to talk to you, none at all."

"But," says the object, "I haven't had a chance to tell you----"

"Get out--you!" snaps Piddie, turnin' on his heel and struttin' off.

It ain't the way he talks to parties wearin' imported Panamas and
sportin' walkin' sticks; but, then, most of us has our little fads that
way. What stirred me up, though, was the rough way he did it, and the
hopeless sag to the wreck's chin after he's heard the decision.

"Sweet disposition he's got, eh?" says I. "But don't take him too
serious. He ain't the final word in this shop, and there's nobody gets
next to the big wheeze oftener durin' the day than yours truly. Maybe I
could get that option of yours passed on. Got the document with you?"

He had and hands it over. With that he drops onto the reception room
settee and says he'll wait.

"Better not," says I; "for it might be quite a spell before I gets the
right chance. We'll do this reg'lar, by mail. Now what's the name?"

"Tuttle," says he, "Tinkham J. Tuttle."

"They call you Tink for short, don't they?" says I, and he admits that
they do. "All right," I goes on. "Now the address, Tink. Jersey, eh?
Well, it's likely you'll hear from Mr.