When this conference was over, Enoch once more attacked the correspondence pile which, during the morning, having been constantly fed by the indefatigable Abbott, was now of overwhelming proportions. It was nearly two o'clock when Jonas, having popped his head in and out of the door a half dozen times, evidently waiting for the Boss to look up, entered the room with a tray.
"Luncheon is served, sir," he said.
"Put it right here, Jonas." Enoch did not raise his head.
Jonas set the tray firmly on the conference table. "No, sir, Mr. Secretary, I ain't goin' to sit it there. You're going to git up and come over here and keep your mind on your food. How come you think you got iron insides?"
Enoch sighed. "All right, Jonas, I'm coming." He rose, stretched and moved over to the table. The man ceremoniously pulled out a chair for him, then lifted the towel from the tray and hung it over his arm. On the tray were a bottle of milk, a banana and some shredded wheat biscuit, with two cigars.
"Any time you want me to change your lunch, Mr. Secretary, you say so," said Jonas.
Enoch laughed. "Jonas, old man, how long have I been eating this fodder for lunch?"
"Ever since you was Secretary to the Mayor, boss!"
"And how many times do you suppose you've told me you were willing to change it, Jonas?"
"Every time, boss. How come you think I like to see a smart man like you living on baby food?"