no Otto in sight, and the
barber pole was still missin'. That's about all the information that's
come my way.

Barry Wales don't know even that much. But when he comes in to report
for further orders, as he does frequent now, he has his chest out and
his chin up.

"I say, lieutenant," he remarks confidential this last trip, "we put
something over, didn't we?"

"I expect we did," says I.

"But what was it all about, eh?" he whispers.

"Why," says I, "you got pinched twice without losin' your amateur
standin', and one of the stripes opened in the middle. When they tell me
the rest I'll pass it on to you."

"By George! Will you, though?" says Barry, and after executin' another
Boy Scout salute he goes off perfectly satisfied.

CHAPTER IV

A FRAME-UP FOR STUBBY

I expect I shouldn't have been so finicky. I ain't as a rule. My usual
play is to press the button and take whoever is sent in from the general
office. But the last young lady typist they'd wished on me must have
eased in on the job with a diploma from some hair-dressin'
establishment. She got real haughty when I pointed out that we was using
only one "l" in Albany now, but nothing I could say would keep her from
writing Bridgeport as two words.

And such a careless way she had of parking her gum on the corner of my
desk and forgettin' to retrieve it. So with four or five more folios to
do on a report I was makin' to the Ordnance Department, I puts it up to
Mr. Piddie personally to pick the best he can spare.

"Course," says I, "I don't expect to get Old Hickory's star performer,
but I thought you might have one of the old guard left; one that didn't
learn her spellin' by the touch method, at least."

Piddie sighs. Since so many of his key-pounders has gone to polishin'
shell noses, or sailed to do canteen work, he's been having a poor time
keeping up his office force. "Do you know, Torchy," says he, "I haven't
one left that I can guarantee; but suppose you try Miss Casey, who has
just joined."

She wouldn't have been my choice if I'd been doin' the pickin'. One of
these tall, limber young females, Miss Casey is, about as thick as a
drink of water, but strong on hair and eyes. She glides in willowy,
drapes herself on a chair, pats her home-grown ear-muffs into shape, and
unfolds her note book business-like. And inside of two minutes she's
doing the Pitman stuff in jazz time, with no call for repeats except
when I'd shoot a string of figure