"Yes, it's me," says I, still holdin' the pair at arms' length. "What's the row?"
"Why," says Corson, "this old woman——"
"Lady," says I.
"Aw—er—yes," says he. "She insists on fawcing her way in to see Mr. Dawes."
"Well," says I, "she ain't got no bag of dynamite, or anything like that, has she?"
"I just wanted a word with Fletcher," says she, buttin' in—"just a word or two."
"Friend of yours?" says I.
"Why— Well, we have known each other for forty years," says she.
"That ought to pass you in," says I,
"But she refuses to give her name," says Corson.