"Let me in! I've got to see him instantaceously. This time I've got it; I've absolutely got it!"
Joyce and I gasped, then broke simultaneously for the door as it flew open to reveal a tableau resembling the Laocoon group sans snake and party of the third part. Back to the door and struggling valiantly to defend it stood the receptionist, Miss Thomas. Held briefly but volubly at bay was a red-thatched, buck-toothed individual—and I do mean individual!—with a face like the map of Eire, who stopped wrestling as he saw us, and grinned delightedly.
"Hello, Mr. Mallory," he said. "Hi, Miss Joyce."
"Pat!" we both cried at once. "Pat Pending!"
Miss Thomas, a relative newcomer to our bailiwick, seemed baffled by the warmth of our greeting. She entered the office with our visitor, and as Joyce and I pumphandled him enthusiastically she asked, "You—you know this gentleman, Mr. Mallory?"
"I should say we do!" I chortled. "Pat, you old naughty word! Where on earth have you been hiding lately?"
"Surely you've heard of the great Patrick Pending, Miss Thomas?" asked Joyce.
"Pending?" faltered Miss Thomas. "I seem to have heard the name. Or seen it somewhere—"
Pat beamed upon her companionably. Stepping to my desk, he up-ended the typewriter and pointed to a legend in tiny letters stamped into the frame: Reg. U.S. Pat. Off.—Pat. Pending.