ther, and by the time he'd beat
into my head all he knew about the Fundin' Comp'ny we was as chummy as
two survivors of the same steamer wreck. Simple, I know; but this little
experience made me feel like I'd signed a gen'ral peace treaty with the
world at large.

I hadn't, though. An hour later I runs up against Willis G. Briscoe.
He's kind of an outside development manager, who makes preliminary
reports on new deals. One of these cold-eyed, chesty parties, Willis G.
is; tall and thin, and with a big, bowwow voice that has a rasp to it.

"Huh!" says he, as he discovers me busy at the desk. "I heard of this
out in Chicago three days ago; but I thought it must be a joke."

"Them reporters do get things straight now and then, don't they?" says
I.

"Reporters!" he snorts. "Philip wrote me about it."

"Oh!" says I. "Cousin Philip, eh?"

And that gave me the whole plot of the piece. Cousin Phil was a
cigarette-consumin' college discard that Willis G. had been nursin'
along in the bondroom, waitin' for a better openin'; and this jump of
mine had filled a snap job that he'd had his eyes on for Cousin.

"I suppose you're only temporary, though," says he.

"That's all," says I. "Mr. Ellins will be resignin' in eight or ten
years, I expect, and then they'll want me in his chair. Nice mornin',
ain't it?"

"Bah!" says he, registerin' deep disgust, as they say in the movie
scripts. "You'll do well if you last eight or ten days."

"How cheerin'!" says I, and as he swings off with a final glare I tips
him the humorous wink.

Why not? No young-man-afraid-of-his-job part for me! Briscoe might get
it away from me, or he might not; but I wa'n't goin' to get panicky over
it. Let him do his worst!

He didn't need any urgin'. With a little scoutin' around he discovers
that about the only assignment on my hook so far is this Rowley matter:
you know, the old inventor guy with the mill-tailings scheme. And the
first hint I had that he was wise to that was when Mr. Robert calls me
over after lunch and explains how this Rowley business sort of comes in
Mr. Briscoe's department.

"So I suppose you'd better turn it over to him," says he.

"Just as you say," says I. "The old gent is due at two-fifteen, and I'll
shunt him onto Briscoe."

Which I did. And at two-thirty-five Briscoe breezes in with his report.

"Nothing to it," says he. "This Rowley person has a lot of half-baked
ideas about briquets and retort recoveries, and talks