"Deah-uh me!" says I. "How distressin'! Say, you watch me flag him on the jump."
"But I've just told you," insists the secretary, "that Mr. Sturgis cannot——"
"Ah, mooshwaw!" says I. "This is a case of must—see? If you put me out I'll lay for him on the way to the elevator."
Course with some parties that might be a risky tackle; but anyone with a front name like Percey I'm takin' a chance on. Percey! Listens like one of the silky-haired kind that wears heliotrope silk socks, don't it? But, say, what finally shows up is a wide, heavy built gent with a big, homespun sort of face, crispy brown hair a little long over the ears, and the steadiest pair of bright brown eyes I ever saw. Nothing fancy or frail about Percey J. Sturgis. He's solid and substantial, from his wide-soled No. 10's up to the crown of his seven three-quarter hat. He has a raincoat thrown careless over one arm, and he's smokin' a cigar as big and black as any of Old Hickory's.
"Well, what is it, Son?" says he in one of them deep barytones that you feel all the way through to your backbone.
And this is what I've been sent out either to scare off or buy up! Still, you can't die but once.
"I'm from Mr. Ellins of the Corrugated Trust," says I.
"Ah!" says he, smilin' easy.
Well, considerin' how my knees was wabblin', I expect I put the proposition over fairly strong.
"You may tell Mr. Ellins for me," says he, "that I don't intend to quit."