ds. You ain't the whole works
maybe; but you're a special, particular party, one that can push buttons
and have 'em answered, paw over the mail, or put your initials under a
signature.

And right in the midst of them rosy reflections the door to the private
office swings open abrupt and in pads a stout old party wearin' a
generous-built pongee suit and a high-crowned Panama. Also there's
something familiar about the bushy eyebrows and the lima bean ears. It's
Old Hickory himself. I chokes down a gasp and straightens up.

"Gee, Mr. Ellins!" says I. "I thought you was down at the Springs?"

"Didn't think I'd been banished for life, did you?" says he.

"But Mr. Robert," I goes on, "didn't look for you until----"

"No doubt," he breaks in. "Robert and those fool doctors would have kept
me soaking in those infernal mud baths until I turned into a crocodile.
I know. I'm a gouty, rheumatic old wreck, I suppose; but I'll be dad
blistered if I'm going to end my days wallowing in medicated mud! I've
had enough. Where is everybody?"

So I has to account for Mr. Robert, tell how Mrs. Ellins and Marjorie
and Son-in-Law Ferdie are up to Bar Harbor, and hint that they're
expectin' him to come up as soon as he lands.

"That's their programme, is it?" he growls. "Think I'm going to spend
the rest of the season sitting on a veranda taking pills, do they? Well,
they're mistaken!"

And off he goes into his own room. I don't know what he thought he was
goin' to do there. Just habit, I expect. For we've been gettin' along
without Old Hickory for quite some time now, while he's been away. First
off he tried to keep in touch with things by night letters, then he had
a weekly report sent him; but gradually he lost the run of the new
deals, and for the last month or so he'd quit firin' over any orders at
all.

Through the open door I could see him sittin' at his big, flat-topped
mahogany desk, starin' around sort of aimless. Then he pulls out a
drawer and shuffles over some old papers that had been there ever since
he left. Next he picks up a pen and starts to make some notes.

"Boy!" he sings out. "Ink!"

Course I could have pushed the buzzer and had Vincent do it; but seein'
how nobody had put him wise to the change, I didn't feel like
announcin' it myself. So I fills the inkwell, chases up a waste basket
for him, and turns on the electric fan.

"Now bring the mail!" says he snappy.

He was back to; so it was safe to smile. You