"Aw, jest Fibsy. That's me name, because, if you want to know, because
I'm a natural born liar and I fib for a living."
He was impudent without being offensive; his wide smile was good-natured and the twinkle in his eye a friendly one.
"I got yer number," he said, after a comprehensive survey of my person, "you're C. Calhoun. Ain't you?"
"I sure am," I agreed, meeting his taste for the vernacular, "and now for your real name."
"Terence McGuire," he smiled, and with a quick gesture he snatched off his cap. "C'mon in, if you like. I'm F. Stone's right-hand man."
"What!" I cried, in amazement.
"Yep, that's what. I'm—well, I like to call myself his caddy. I follow him round, and hold his clues for him, till he wants one, then I hand it out. See?"
"Not entirely. But I gather you're in Mr. Stone's employ."
"You bet I am! And I'm on me job twenty-four hours a day."
"And what is your job just now?"