yarn?"

"Tommyrot!" says he. "For once in his life the old fool played his head
off, that's all. Nine holes in par. Huh! I'm liable to do that myself
one of these days, and without the aid of any departed spirits. Yes,
sir. The fact is, Torchy, I am practicing a new swing that ought to have
me playing in the low 90's before the middle of the next season. You
see, it all depends on taking an open stance and keeping a stiff right
knee. Here' pass me that umbrella and I'll show you."

And for the next ten minutes he kept a bank president, two directors and
a general manager waiting while he swats a ball of paper around the
private office with me for an audience. Uh-huh. And being a high ace
private sec. I aint even supposed to grin. Say, why don't some genius
get up an anti-golf serum so that when one of these old plutes found
himself slippin' he could rush to a clinic and get a shot in the arm?

CHAPTER XIV

TORCHY SHUNTS A WIZARD

I'd hardly noticed when Mr. Robert blew in late from lunch until I hears
him chuckle. Then I glances over my shoulder and sees that he's lookin'
my way. Course, that gets me curious, for Mr. Robert ain't the kind of
boss that goes around chucklin' casual, 'specially at a busy private
sec.

"Yes, sir?" says I, shoving back a tray full of correspondence I'm
sortin'.

"I heard something rather good, at luncheon, Torchy," says he.

"On red hair, I expect," says I.

"It wasn't quite so personal as that," says he. "Still, I think you'll
be interested."

"It's part of my job to look so, anyway," says I, givin' him the grin.

"And another item on which you specialize, I believe," he goes on, "is
the detection of book agents. At least, you used to do so when you were
head office boy. Held a record, didn't you?"

"Oh, I don't know," says I tryin' to register modesty. "One got past the
gate; one in five years. That was durin' my first month."

"Almost an unblemished career," says Mr. Robert. "What about your
successor, Vincent?"

"Oh, he's doing fairly well," says I. "Gets stung now and then. Like
last week when that flossy blonde with the Southern accent had him
buffaloed with a tale about having met dear Mr. Ellins at French Lick
and wantin' to show him something she knew he'd be just crazy about. She
did, too. 'Lordly Homes of England,' four volumes, full morocco, at
fifty a volume. And I must say she was nearly right. He wasn't far from
being crazy for the next hour or so. Vi