CHAPTER XVI
CLASSING TUTWATER RIGHT
Maybe that brass plate had been up in the lower hall of our buildin’ a month or so before I takes any partic’lar notice of it. Even when I did get my eye on it one mornin’ it only gets me mildly curious. “Tutwater, Director of Enterprises, Room 37, Fourth Floor,” is all it says on it.
“Huh!” thinks I. “That’s goin’ some for a nine by ten coop under the skylight.”
And with that I should have let it drop, I expect. But what’s the use? Where’s the fun of livin’, if you can’t mix in now and then. And you know how I am.
Well, I comes pikin’ up the stairs one day not long after discoverin’ the sign, and here on my landin’, right in front of the studio door, I finds this Greek that runs the towel supply wagon usin’ up his entire United States vocabulary on a strange gent that he’s backed into a corner.
“Easy, there, easy, Mr. Poulykopolis!” says I. “This ain’t any golf links, where you can smoke up the atmosphere with language like that. What’s the row, anyway?”
“No pay for five week; always nex’ time, he tells, nex’ time. Gr-r-r-r! I am strong to slap his life out, me!” says Pouly, thumpin’ his chest and shakin’ his black curls. They sure are fierce actin’ citizens when they’re excited, these Marathoners.