“Oh, yes, yes! I keep forgettin’ that supper’s dinner. Well, I presume likely I’ll be back for luncheon. If I ain’t, don’t wait for me. I’ll be home afore supper—there I go again!—afore dinner, anyhow. Good-by.”
Five minutes later he was at the street corner, inquiring of a policeman “the handiest way to get to Pine Street.” Following the directions given, he boarded a train at the nearest subway station, emerged at Wall Street, inquired once more, located the street he was looking for, and, consulting a card which he took from a big stained leather pocket-book, walked on, peering at the numbers of the buildings he passed.
The offices of Sylvester, Kuhn, and Graves, were on the sixteenth floor of a new and gorgeously appointed sky-scraper. When Captain Elisha entered the firm’s reception room, he was accosted by a wide-awake and extremely self-possessed office boy.
“Who’d you want to see?” asked the boy, briskly.
The captain removed his hat and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.
“Hold on a jiffy, Sonny,” he panted. “Just give me a minute to sort of get myself together, as you might say. I rode up in one of those express elevators of yours, and I kind of feel as if my boots had got tangled up with my necktie. When that elevator feller cast off from the cellar, I begun to shut up like a spyglass. Whew! Say, Son, is Mr. Graves in?”
“No,” replied the boy, grinning.
“Hum! Still in the sick bay, is he—hey?”
“He’s to home. Got a cold.”
“Yup. It’s too bad. Mr.—er—Sylvester, is he in?”