Closeted with Jolter and Brown, and mapping out with them the dangerous campaign into which they had plunged, Bobby did not leave the office of the Bulletin until six o’clock. At the curb, just as he was about to step into his waiting machine, Biff Bates hailed him with vast enthusiasm.
“Go to it, Bobby!” said he. “I’m backing you across the board, win, place and show; but let me give you a hot tip right from the stables. You want to be afraid to go home in the dark, or Stone’s lobbygows will lean on you with a section of plumbing.”
“I’ve thought of that, Biff,” laughed Bobby; “and I think I’ll organize a band of murderers of my own.”
Johnson, whom Bobby had quite forgotten in the stress of the day, joined them at this moment. Thirty years as head bookkeeper and confidential adviser in old John Burnit’s merchandise establishment had not fitted lean Johnson for the less dignified and more flurried work of a newspaper office, even in the business department, and he was looking very much fagged.
“Well, Johnson, what do you think of my first issue of the Bulletin?” asked Bobby pleasantly.
Johnson looked genuinely distressed.
“To tell you the truth, Mr. Burnit,” said he, “I have not seen it. I never in all my life saw a place where there were so many interruptions to work. If we could only be back in your father’s store, sir.”
“We’ll be back there before we quit,” said Bobby confidently; “or I’ll be in the incurable ward.”
“I hope so, sir,” said Johnson dismally, and strode across the street to catch his car; but he came back hastily to add: “I meant about the store; not about the asylum.”
Biff Bates laughed as he clambered into the tonneau with Bobby.