Willie’s eyes popped open wide. “Why, I thought,” he began, and then was silent.
He sorted, slit, and delivered the mail as directed. But while he was doing it, he was trying to recall what the old office boy had told him. Willie was certain he had been told not to slit any letters. Could it be that he had misunderstood?
Time went faster than he dreamed it could. Willie was busy every moment. Before he knew it, the morning was almost past. Willie thought of the spittoons. He leaped to his feet and darted into the Special Agent’s office. From either side of the big mahogany desk he lifted a shining brass cuspidor and started for the door.
“Hold on there,” roared the Chief. “What in blazes are you doing with those spittoons? Don’t get so gay. There’ll be plenty of jobs worth doing, without wasting your time on cuspidors. What did you mean to do with them, anyway?”
Willie’s suspicions were becoming certainties, as he answered, “Clean them, of course. Isn’t that part of my work?”
“Certainly not,” exploded the Special Agent. “That’s work for the scrub women. What in blazes do you think I would do while you were off somewhere cleaning spittoons, and half a hundred people were waiting outside my office? Where did you intend to wash those things, anyway?”
Willie stepped close to his Chief’s desk, and very quietly and distinctly said, “In the washroom—just where I was instructed to clean them.”
“Instructed!” roared the Special Agent. “Who instructed you to clean spittoons?”
“I was told that was part of my work,” said Willie, dodging the question. “I thought I had to clean them twice a day.”
Despite his anger, the Special Agent burst into laughter. “I see somebody has been stringing you,” he said. “And I see you don’t exactly like to be a telltale. All right. You needn’t name anybody. I am a good guesser. But tell me this. Why did you bring that man into my office without first announcing him? Did you understand that that also was a part of your duties?”