me one side and pats me on the
back. "I say, Torchy," says he, "as a raconteur you're a great success.
It worked. Nicky will sign up tomorrow."

"Good!" says I. "Only send him where they ain't got the settin' hen
habit and the taxi drivers ain't so willin' to take a chance."

CHAPTER IX

BRINK DOES A SIDESLIP

Mostly it was a case of Old Hickory runnin' wild on the main track and
Brink Hollis being in the way. What we really ought to have in the
Corrugated general offices is one of these 'quake detectors, same as
they have in Washington to register distant volcano antics, so all hands
could tell by a glance at the dial what was coming and prepare to stand
by for rough weather.

For you never can tell just when old Hickory Ellins is going to cut
loose. Course, being on the inside, with my desk right next to the door
of the private office, I can generally forecast an eruption an hour or
so before it takes place. But it's apt to catch the rest of the force
with their hands down and their mouths open.

Why, just by the way the old boy pads in at 9:15, plantin' his hoofs
heavy and glarin' straight ahead from under them bushy eye dormers of
his, I could guess that someone was goin' to get a call on the carpet
before very long. And sure enough he'd hardly got settled in his big
leather swing chair before he starts barkin' for Mr. Piddie.

I expect when it comes to keepin' track of the overhead, and gettin' a
full day's work out of a bunch of lady typists, and knowin' where to buy
his supplies at cut-rates, Piddie is as good an office manager as you'll
find anywhere along Broadway from the Woolworth tower to the Circle; but
when it comes to soothin' down a 65-year-old boss who's been awake most
of the night with sciatica, he's a flivver. He goes in with his brow
wrinkled up and his knees shakin', and a few minutes later he comes out
pale in the gills and with a wild look in his eyes.

"What's the scandal, Piddie?" says I. "Been sent to summon the firin'
squad, or what?"

He don't stop to explain then, but pikes right on into the bond room and
holds a half-hour session with that collection of giddy young
near-sports who hold down the high stools. Finally, though, he tip-toes
back to me, wipes the worry drops from his forehead, and gives me some
of the awful details.

"Such incompetency!" says he husky. "You remember that yesterday Mr.
Ellins called for a special report on outside holdings? And when it is
su