"If—if you please, Sir," says he, bowin' elaborate and humble, "Mr. Robert Ellins."
"Gwan!" says I. "You read that on the floor directory. You don't know Mr. Robert."
"But—but if you please, Sir," he goes on, "I wish to speak with him."
"You do, eh?" says I. "Now, ain't that cute of you? Think you can pick out any name on the board and drift in for a chat, do you? Come now, what you peddlin'—dollar safety-razors, bullpups, or what?"
He ain't a real live wire, this heavy-faced, wide-shouldered, squatty-built party with the bumper crop of curly black hair. He blinks his big, full eyes kind of solemn, starin' at me puzzled, and about as intelligent as a cow gazin' over a fence. An odd lookin' gink he was, sort of a cross between a dressed up bartender on his day off and a longshoreman havin' his picture taken.
"Excuse," says he, rousin' a little, "but—but it is not to peddle. I would wish to speak with Mr. Robert Ellins."
"Well, then, you can't," says I, wavin' towards the door; "so beat it!"
This don't make any more impression than as if I'd tried to push him over with one finger. "I would wish," he begins again, "to speak with——"
"Say, that's all on the record," says I, "and the motion's been denied."
"But I——" he starts in once more, "I have——"