I--I rather would like to see
Ellins today, if I could."

"Why, sure!" says I, easin' him into Old Hickory's swing chair.

But somehow when I'd slipped out to the 'phone booth and got in touch
with the boss he don't seem so anxious to rush up and meet his old side
kick. No. He's more or less calm about it.

"Eh?" says he. "Dowd? Oh, yes! Well, you just tell him, Torchy, that I'm
tied up here and can't say when I'll be through. He'd better not wait."

"Excuse me, Mr. Ellins," says I, "but he's been here twice before. Seems
to have something on his mind that--well, might be important, you
know."

"Yes, it might be," says Old Hickory, and I couldn't tell whether he
threw in a snort or a chuckle right there. "And since you think it is,
Torchy, perhaps you'd better get him to sketch it out to you."

"All right," says I. "That is, if he'll loosen up."

"Oh, I rather think he will," says Old Hickory.

It was a good guess. For when I tells Dowd how sorry Mr. Ellins is that
he can't come just then, and suggests that I've got power of attorney to
take care of anything confidential he might spill into my nigh ear, he
opens right up.

Course, what I'm lookin' for is some big business stuff; maybe a
straight tip on how this new shift in Europe is going to affect foreign
exchange, or a hunch as to what the administration means to put over in
regard to the railroad muddle. He's a solemn-faced, owl-eyed old party,
this Mesaba Matt. Looks like he was thinkin' wise and deep about weighty
matters. You know. One of these slow-movin', heavy-lidded,
double-chinned old pelicans who never mention any sum less than seven
figures. So I'm putting up a serious secretarial front myself when he
starts clearin' his throat.

"Young man," says he, "I suppose you know something about golf!"

"Eh?" says I. "Golf? Oh, yes. That is. I've seen it played some. I was
on a trip with Mr. Ellins down at Pinehurst, five or six years back,
when he broke into the game, and I read Grant Rice's dope on it more or
less reg'lar."

"But you haven't played golf yourself, have you?" he goes on.

"No," says I, "I've never indulged in the Scottish rite to any extent.
Just a few swipes with a club."

"Then I'm afraid," he begins, "that you will hardly----"

"Oh, I'm a great little understander," says I, "unless you mean to go
into the fine points, or ask me to settle which is the best course. I've
heard some of them golf addicts talk about Shawnee or Apawam