“Well then, lose your job if you want to. What’s it to me? You blooming idiot, didn’t you hear me say that the boss himself is hollerin’ for you. I reckon he’s got a mouthfull to say about that lurid tale you pulled off in this morning’s paper.”
“He saw it before it went in,” growled Jimmy. “If there is any trouble it is up to him. Ain’t he the management?”
“I thought that would wake you up. Now get up and put on your dressing gown—here it is—here are your slippers. Never mind your boudoir cap, just slip along to the phone.”
Jimmy meekly obeyed. There was no use in grumbling when one’s boss was on the line.
“Hello!” he said in a voice as sweet as honey.
“Yes, sir! Yes, sir! Be right down. Don’t let her get away.”
“Breakfast? No sir! What’s breakfast! Never eat on Sunday, that is, breakfast. Be down in a jiffy.”
It was a wide awake Jimmy who, after turning on a cold shower, tore back to his room and began to throw on his clothes like a lightning change vaudeville artist.
“So long, Kit, old fellow. Something big is up but I don’t know what. It’s got something to do with Sherlocko Simpson, I think, but I’ll see you later,” and the youngster was out on the street and running for a trolley in less time than it would have taken the fire department to answer an alarm.