Holding his hands to his ears, Philip Merriwether ran home as fast as his spindly legs could propel him.
B. J. Holly, office manager for Starr & Sons, Inc., flipped a switch on his desk intercom. "Where is Merriwether?" he snapped. "That boy was supposed to have picked up these letters for filing half an hour ago. I can't wait any longer."
"Mr. Merriwether phoned in this morning, sir," said the secretary's voice. "He said he was a little ill, and he'd be late. He—oh! Just a moment, sir; he just came in."
"Send him in here!" ordered B. J. Holly.
Mr. Holly frowned at Phil Merriwether as soon as the door opened. "Under the weather a bit, eh, Merriwether?"
Phil nodded. "Yes, sir. My head feels queer."
Mr. Holly suppressed an impulse to remark that he wasn't at all surprised. In his estimation, anyone with a head like Merriwether's would feel odd all the time. But Mr. Holly, although somewhat tyrrannical, and definitely a stuffed shirt, was not basically cruel, so he said nothing that vicious.
"A bit of a hangover, perhaps?" he asked suspiciously.
Phil was picking up the papers for the file room. "No, sir," he said absently. "A hangover is caused by the toxic effects of various isomeric forms of higher alcohols and other impurities normally present in alcoholic beverages, plus a depletion of vitamins, especially B-one, in the system. I don't drink."