Part 33 (1/2)

[Ill.u.s.tration: WE MUST HAVE BEEN A GREAT PAIR.]

”Why, how is that?” says he.

”Did they tie anything to you?” says I. ”You know--con you into takin'

the blame, or anything like that?”

”Blame for what?” says he. ”I don't believe I understand. But nothing of the sort was mentioned. I was merely given some instructions about my work.”

”Oh!” says I. ”That's all, eh? And you've gone right at it, have you?”

”No,” says he. ”The fact is, Torchy, I am writing out my resignation.”

”What! Quittin'?” says I. ”Say, don't you see what a hole that puts you in? Why, it makes you the goat for fair! If you do that you'll need bail inside of forty-eight hours--and you won't get it. Look here, Dudley, take my advice and tear that up.”

”But I can't, Torchy,” says he, ”really, I can't.”

”Why not?” says I. ”You've got a couple of hands, ain't you? And what'll you do for another job if you chuck this one? Say, why in blazes are you so anxious to take your chances between Sing Sing and the bread line?”

He's there with the explanation, all right, and here's the way it stands: Uncle Dudley has been called on because his partic'lar double-entry trick is to keep the run of the private accounts. All they want him to do is to take descriptions of a couple of checks, dig up the stubs, and juggle his books so the record will fit in with a nice new set of transactions that's just been invented for the purpose.

”But what checks?” says I. ”The five thousand plunkers to Mutt & Mudd?”

”Why, yes,” says he. ”How did you know?”

”Ah, how did I----Say, Dudley, ain't you been readin' the papers lately?” says I.

Would you believe it? He don't know any more about what's in the air than a museum mummy knows of Lobster Square. This little private cyclone that's been turnin' the office upside down ain't so much as ruffled his whiskers. Checks are checks to him, and these special trouble makers don't give him any chills up the back at all. He's been told, though, to use the acid bottle on his books and write in a new version.

”Well, why not do it?” says I. ”What's that to you?”

”Why, don't you see,” says he, ”it would be making a false entry, and--I--I----Well, I've never done such a thing in my life, Torchy, and I can't begin now.”

And, say, what do you know about that, eh? Just a piece of phony bookkeepin' that he don't even have to put his name to, his job gone if he don't follow orders, and him almost to the age limit anyway, with Son in Law Bennett ready to shove him on the street the minute he gets the sack!

”Do you mean it?” says I.

He puts his signature to the resignation and hands it over for me to read.

”Say, Dudley,” says I, lookin' him up and down, ”this listens to me like a bughouse play of yours; but I got to admit that you do it sporty.

There's no ocher streak in you.”

”I hoped you would understand,” says he. ”In the circ.u.mstances, it was all I could do, you see.”

”What I see plainer'n anything else,” says I, ”is that if this goes through your career is bugged to the limit. When do you want this handed in?”

”As soon as possible,” says he. ”I suppose I ought to resign at once.”

”Resign!” says I. ”You'll be lucky if the old man don't have you chucked through the window. Better be waitin' down in the lower corridor when I spring this on Mr. Ellins.”

Nothin' of that kind for Uncle Dudley, though. He starts straightenin'