And, say, half an hour later we were all sittin' down to as good a ham omelet as I ever tasted. When I left with Nick to catch the forenoon express, young Mrs. Talbot was chewin' the end of a lead pencil, with them pansy eyes of hers glued on a pad where she was dopin' out her first dinner order. She would break away from it only long enough to give Hubby a little bird peck on the cheek; but he seems tickled to death with that.
So it wa'n't any long report I has to hand in to Mr. Robert that night.
"All bunk!" says I. "Just a case of a honeymoon that rose a little late. It's shinin' steady now, though. But, say, I hope I'm never batty enough to fall for one of the butterfly kind. If I do—good night!"
CHAPTER XV
BEING SICCED ON PERCEY
Maybe it ain't figured in the headlines, or been noised around enough for the common stockholders to get panicky over it, but, believe me, it was some battle! Uh-huh! What else could you expect with Old Hickory Ellins on one side and George Wesley Jones on the other? And me? Say, as it happens, I was right on the firin' line. Talk about your drummer boys of '61—I guess the office boy of this A. M. ain't such a dead one!
Course I knew when Piddie begins tiptoein' around important, and Mr. Robert cuts his lunchtime down to an hour, that there's something in the air besides humidity.
"Boy," says Old Hickory, shootin' his words out past the stub of a thick black cigar, "I'm expecting a Mr. Jones sometime this afternoon."
"Yes, Sir," says I. "Any particular Jones, Sir?"