ty
within jabbin' distance of the Huns?"

"We did consider that," says Old Hickory, "but the decision was just as
I suspected from the first. The major says it would be a shame to waste
you on anything less than a divisional command, and there aren't enough
of those to go around. Chiefly, though, he thinks that anyone who is
able to get things done in New York in the wizard-like way that you can
should be kept within call of Governor's Island. So I fear, Torchy,
that you and I will have to go on serving our country right here."

"All right, Mr. Ellins," says I. "I expect you win--as per usual."

CHAPTER III

TORCHY PULLS THE DEEP STUFF

Course, I didn't know what Old Hickory was stackin' me up against when
he calls me into the private office and tells me to shake hands with
this Mr. McCrea. Kind of a short, stubby party he is, with a grayish
mustache and sort of sleepy gray eyes. He's one of these slow motioned,
quiet talking ginks, with restful ways, such as would fit easy into a
swivel chair and hold down a third vice-president's job for life. Or he
might be a champion chess player.

So when the boss goes on to say how Mr. McCrea is connected with the
Washington sleuth bureau I expect I must have gawped at him a bit
curious. Some relic of the old office force, was my guess; a hold-over
from the times when the S. S. people called it a big day if they could
locate a lead nickel fact'ry in Mulberry Street, or drop on a few Chink
laundrymen bein' run in from Canada in crates. Maybe he was a
thumb-print expert.

"Howdy," says I, glancin' up at the clock to see if the prospects was
good for makin' the 5:17 out to Harbor Hills.

"I am told you know the town rather well," suggests McCrea, sort of
mild and apologetic.

"Me!" says I. "Oh, I can usually find my way back to Broadway even in
foggy weather."

He indulges in a flickery little smile. "I also understand," he goes on,
"that you have shown yourself to be somewhat quick witted in
emergencies."

"I must have a good press agent, then," says I, glancin' accusin' at Mr.
Ellins.

But Old Hickory shakes his head. "I suspect that was my friend, Major
Wellby," says he.

"Oh!" says I. "The one I rescued the wire spools for? A lucky break,
that was."

"Mr. McCrea is working on something rather more important," goes on Old
Hickory, "and if you can help him in any way I trust you will do it."

"Sure," says I. "What's the grand little idea?"

He don't s