she. "It's--it's about Marion."

"Oh!" says I. "She ain't bumped somebody with the truck, has she?"

"How absurd!" says Vee. "But, listen, Captain Ellery Prescott has come
back."

"What! The old favorite?" says I. "But I thought he was over with
Pershing?"

"Not yet," says Vee. "He has been out at some Western camp training
recruits all this time. But now he has his orders. He is to sail very
soon. And he's seen Marion."

"Has he?" said I. "Did it give him a jolt, or what?"

Vee giggles and pulls my head down so she can whisper in my ear. "He
thought her perfectly stunning, as she is, of course. And they're to be
married day after tomorrow."

"Z-z-z-zing!" says I. "That puts a crimp in the ready-made dinner
business, I expect."

"Not at all," says Vee. "Until he comes back, after the war, Marion is
going to carry on."

"Anyway," says I, "it ends 'Puffy' Biggies as an impendin' tragedy,
don't it? And I expect that's worth while, too."

CHAPTER II

OLD HICKORY BATS UP ONE

Anybody would most think I'd been with the Corrugated Trust long enough
to know that Old Hickory Ellins generally gets what he wants, whether
it's quick action from an office boy or a two-thirds majority vote from
the board of directors. But once in a while I seem to forget, and
shortly after that I'm wonderin' if it was a tank I went up against so
solid, or if someone threw the bond safe at me.

What let me in wrong this last time was a snappy little remark I got
shot my way right here in the general offices. I was just back from a
three-days' chase after a delayed shipment of bridge girders and steel
wheelbarrows that was billed for France in a rush, and I'd got myself
disliked by most of the traffic managers between here and Altoona, to
say nothing of freight conductors, yard bosses and so on. But I'd
untangled those nine cars and got 'em movin' toward the North River, and
now I was steamin' through a lot of office detail that had piled up
while I was gone. I'd lunched luxurious on an egg sandwich and a war
doughnut that Vincent had brought up to me from the arcade automat, and
I'd 'phoned Vee that I might not be out home until the 11:13, when in
blows this potty party with the poison ivy leaves on his shoulder straps
and demands to see Mr. Ellins at once. Course, it's me with my heels
together doin' the zippy salute.

"Sorry, major," says I, "but Mr. Ellins won't be in until 10:30."

"Hah!" says he, like bitin' off a pie