Part 1 (2/2)

”Mr. Sweet.w.a.ter, can't you get yourself mobbed without being so noisy about it? What's up, anyway?”

But Sweet.w.a.ter wasn't a lightnin' calculator. He stands there with his mouth open, gawpin' at me, and tryin' to figure out what's broke loose; so I pushes to the front and helps him out.

”There's a bunch of also rans out there, Mr. Pepper,” says I, ”that don't know when to fade. They're just grouchy because I've swiped the job.”

I was lookin' for him to sit up at that; but he don't. ”What makes you think that you've got it!” says he.

”'Cause I'm in and they're out,” says I. ”Anyway, they're a lot of dopes, and a man like you wants a live one around. That's me. Where do I begin?” And I chucks the sign into a waste basket and hangs my cap on a hook.

Now, that ain't any system you can follow reg'lar. I don't often do it that way, 'cause I ain't any fonder of bein' thrown through a door than the next one. But this was a long shot and I was willin' to run the risk. That fat headed starter knew he was steerin' me up against a mob; so I was just achin' to squeeze the lemon in his eye by makin' good.

For awhile, though, I couldn't tell whether I was up in a balloon or let in on the ground floor. Mr. Pepper was givin' me the search warrant look-over, and I see he's one of these gents that you can't jar easy. I hadn't rushed him off his feet by my through the center play. There was still plenty of chance of my gettin' the low tackle.

”If I might ask,” says he, smooth as a silk lid, ”what is your name?”

”Ah, w'at's the use?” says I, duckin' my head. ”Look at that hair! You might's well begin callin' me Torchy; you'd come to it.”

He didn't grin nor nothin'; but only I see his eyes wrinkle a little at the corners. ”Very well, Torchy,” says he. ”I suppose you have your references?”

”Nah, I ain't,” says I. ”But if you're stuck on such things I can get 'em. There's a feller down on Ann-st. that'll write beauts for a quarter a throw.”

”So?” says he. ”Then we'll pa.s.s that point. Why did you leave your last place?”

”By request,” says I. ”The stiff gives me the fire. He said I was too fresh.”

”He was mistaken, I suppose,” says Mr. Pepper. ”You're not fresh, are you?”

”Well say, I ain't no last year's limed egg,” says I. ”If you're lookin'

for somethin' that's been in the brine all winter, you'd better put the hook in again.”

He rubs his chin at that. ”Do you like hard work?” says he.

”Think I'd be chasin' up an office boy snap, if I did?” says I.

He takes a minute or so to let that soak in, knockin' his cigar ashes off on the rug in that careless way a man that ain't married does, and then he springs another.

”I presume that if you were left alone in the office occasionally,” says he, ”you could learn to run the business?”

”Nix, not!” says I. ”When I plays myself for a confidential manager I wants to pull down more than four per. Givin' book agents the quick back up and runnin' errands is my strong points. For tips on the market and such as that I charges overtime.”

Course, I'd figured it was all off by then, seein' as how I hadn't rung the bell at any crack. That's why I was so free with the hot air. Mr.

Pepper, he squints at me good and hard, and then pushes the call b.u.t.ton.

”Mr. Sweet.w.a.ter,” says he, ”this young man's name is Torchy. I've persuaded him to a.s.sist us in running the affairs of the Glory Be Mining Company. Put him on the payroll at five a week, and then induce that ma.s.s meeting in the corridor to adjourn.”

”Say,” says I, ”does that mean I'm picked?”

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