"Say, V.V.!--step out here!" he said in a low, interested voice. "There's a whiskered bum dodging around your back hall here, and if I'm not very much mistaken, he's got your Sunday pants!"
"It's Mister," said V.V., looking round from his secretary. "Shut the door."
"Oh!--Garland, hey? But he's swiped your best pants!"
"They were a gift," said V.V., with a touch of soberness. "Sh! he'll hear you."
"Oh!" said the Labor Commissioner again, and looked a little disappointed.
He shut the door and came on in, a substantial figure in his glossy suit. It was the 30th of January, and he had been taking on flesh since October.
"Well, when'd he blow in? Say, he's a ringer for Weary Waggles, all right."
"Sometime in the night," replied the young man, tilting back in his swivel-chair. "Mrs. G. found him in the entryway when she went down for the milk, asleep in the Goldnagels' hall-rug. I'm afraid he's only come to be outfitted again, and she will not be firm with him, no matter what she promises.... By the way, they were not my best trousers at all, except in a sort of technical sense. Never had 'em on but once, at a funeral.--Well, how was the lunch with the Governor?"
The Commissioner, having pushed a new brown derby to the back of his head, walked about.
"Pretty good," said he--"we had a very satisfactory talk. One of his cigars I'm smoking now. I told him what I'd noticed around the State, and gave him an outline of the legislation I want next year. Said my ideas were just right. Paid me some nice compliments. Speaking of legislation," added the Commissioner, flicking cigar-ash on the bare floor with a slightly ruffled air, "you'll be interested to hear I've been down to Heth's since I was in the other day. Saw Heth himself...."