Part 32 (2/2)

”I'm on,” says I. ”He'd spot you for one of the down-and-outers. But you do get it rubbed in here good and plenty, don't you?”

”From Bennett?” says he. ”Oh, he is right, I suppose. He knows how useless I am. But we cannot all succeed, can we? Some of us must stay at the bottom and prop the ladder.”

One thing about Uncle Dudley, he had no whine comin'. He takes it all meek and cheerful, and so far as I could make out he's most as useful around the office as a lot of others that gets chesty whenever they think what would happen to the concern if they should be sick for a week. Anyway, there's frequent calls for old Dudley to straighten out this or that; but somehow he never seems to get credit for bein' much more than a sort of a walkin' copybook that remembers what other people don't want to lumber up their valuable brains with. Maybe it's the white mud guards, or his habit of lettin' anyone boss him around, that keeps him down.

And I expect things would have gone on that way, until he either dropped out or got the blue envelope some payday, if it hadn't been for this lid liftin' business up at Albany. Course, you've read how they uncovered first one lot of grafters and then another, and fin'lly, with that last swipe of the muck rake, got the Corrugated rung into the mess? And, say, anyone would think, from some of the papers, that we was all a bunch of crooks down here, spendin' our time feedin' wads of hundred-dollar bills to the yellow dog. Maybe it don't stir up Mr. Robert some thorough, though!

”Why,” I heard him say to the old man, ”it's a beastly outrage, that's what it is! All the fellows at the club are chaffing me about it, you know. And besides it's disturbing business frightfully. Look at the tumble our shares took yesterday! I say, Governor, we must send out a denial.”

”Huh!” growls Old Hickory. ”Who cares a blinkety blanked blank what they say we did? Let 'em prove it!”

Then the next day them checks was sprung on the investigatin' committee, and it looked as though they'd made out their case against the Corrugated. Perhaps there wa'n't doin's on the seventeenth floor that mornin'! Clear out where I sat I could hear the boss callin' for first one man and then another, and Piddie is turkeyin' in and out so excited he don't know whether he's on duty or runnin' bases. Once, when he stops to lean against the spring-water bottle and wipe his dewy brow, I slips up behind and taps him quick on the shoulder.

”Ye-e-e-es, sir!” says he, before he sees who it is.

”Never mind, Piddie,” says I. ”I was goin' to ask you 'Guilty or not guilty?' But what's the use? Anyone can see it was you that did it.”

”You--you impudent young sauce box!” he begins. ”How dare you----”

”Ah, save that for the subpoena server,” says I. ”He'll be in here after you in a minute. And, say, my guess is that you'll get about ten years on the rockpile.”

When the special directors' meetin' gets under way, though, and the big guns of the Corrugated law force got on the job, there was less noise and more electricity in the air. Honest, with all that tiptoein' and whisperin' and serious looks bein' pa.s.sed around, I didn't even have the gall to guy one of the new typewriter girls. Kind of gets on your nerves, a thing of that kind does, and if a squad of reserves had marched in and pinched the whole outfit, I shouldn't have been so much surprised.

Right in the midst of it too there comes my three rings on the buzzer, and in I sneaks where they're holdin' the inquest. Say, they're all sittin' around the big mahogany directors' table, with the old man at the head, lookin' black and ugly, and grippin' a half smoked cigar b.u.t.t between his teeth. I could see at a glance they hadn't thrown any scare into him yet. He was just beginning to fight, that's all.

”Boy,” says he, ”bring in Dudley.”

”Yes, sir,” says I.

But, say, my heels dragged some as I went out. Course I didn't know what they wanted of the old boy; but it didn't look to be such a wild guess that they'd picked him to play the goat part. I finds him perched up on his stool, calm and serene, workin' away on the ledgers as industrious as if nothin' special was goin' on.

”Dudley,” says I, ”are you feelin' strong?”

”Why, Torchy,” says he, ”I am feeling about as usual, thank you.”

”Well, brace yourself then,” says I; ”for there's rough goin' ahead.

You're wanted in on the carpet.”

”Me?” says he. ”Mr. Ellins wants me?”

”Uh-huh,” says I, ”him and the rest of 'em. But don't let 'em put any spell on you. It's your cue now to forget the meek and lowly business. I know you ain't strong for bluffin' through a game; but for the love of soup put up a front to-day!”

Dudley, he only smiles and shakes his head. Then off he toddles, wearin'

his old ink-stained office coat and even keepin' on the green eye-shade.

Well, I don't know how long they had him on the grill; but it couldn't have been more'n half an hour, for along about three o'clock I strolls into the audit department, and there's old Dudley back on his perch writin' away again.

”Say, are you it?” says I.

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