Part 27 (2/2)

”You--you're an impertinent young whelp!” says he, his cheeks gettin'

purple and puffy.

”Ah, don't mind the frills,” says I. ”Get out the can. I'm fired, ain't I?”

”No!” he shouts, bangin' his fist down on the desk. ”At least, not until I get through with you. What I want to know is why in blue belted blazes you did it!”

”Well,” says I, ”first off I guess it just naturally slipped out; then, when I saw what a hit I was makin' with Martha--why, I expect I sort of enjoyed givin' her the details.”

Somehow, that seems to graze his funnybone, and he has a struggle to keep a grin out of his mouth corners. ”Humph!” says he. ”I--I'd like to have seen her then. So you went on to describe the general state of my health, did you?”

”It was you we was chattin' about,” says I.

”Fascinating topic, I've no doubt,” he growls; ”but I hardly appreciate the attention. Understand?”

”That's breakin' on me gradual,” says I.

”Fortunately for you, though,” he goes on, ”you didn't attempt to lie out of it. By the way, why didn't you?”

”And her just after givin' you the whole game over the 'phone?” says I.

”Ah, say!”

”Young man,” says he, shootin' over the quizzin' gaze, ”either you are too blickety blinked fresh to keep, or else you're too keen to lose; hanged if I know which! But--er--well, I'll take a chance. You may go out and report to Mr. Piddie for duty.”

”It'll near break his heart,” says I.

It does, too. I expect from what he'd heard in the private office that he was figurin' on handin' me my hat as I was shot out and remarkin'

that he knew all along it was comin' to me. Then there'd be a rollcall of new office boys, with him pickin' out one more to his taste than me.

But no such luck for him.

”Cheer up, Piddie,” says I. ”I'll have the warden send you an invitation when they fin'lly get me right.”

Course, I don't make any squeal at the house about my narrow escape; for I knew Martha only meant it for the best. Next day Mr. Ellins don't show up at the office at all, and that evenin' Martha is better posted on his condition than I am. She's been busy on the wire again, this time locatin' him at home.

”My poor cousin,” says she, ”is in a wretched state. He has been overworking, I fear, and seems to be a nervous wreck. That will account, I have no doubt, for his recent lapses into profanity. He feels rather ashamed of himself; but perhaps I should make allowances. What he needs is rest and quiet. Luckily, I happened to know just the place for him and was able to persuade him to go there at once. He started this afternoon.”

It's called the Wesley Restorium, Martha says, and is run by an old friend of hers who used to be a missionary doctor in China. He's an awfully good man, and she's sure he'll help Mr. Ellins a lot. Besides, his place is only about fifty miles off, over in North Jersey; so Mr.

Ellins could make the run easy in his limousine.

Well, that leaves only Mr. Robert, Piddie, and me to manage the Corrugated, and we was all bearin' up under the load well enough except Piddie; when along about two o'clock there's a long distance call from the Main Stem, and a few minutes later Mr. Robert sends out for me.

”Torchy,” says he, ”you seem to be elected. The governor wants you.”

”Me?” says I.

”Yes,” says Mr. Robert. ”I don't exactly understand why. He is at a sanatorium, you know, and we had arranged to send up his private secretary with the important mail this afternoon; but he says he wants you. Says you're responsible for his being there--whatever that means.”

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