Oh, boy, though! That was about as tough a job as I ever tackled. Old Hickory still has his neck feathers ruffled, and he's chewin' savage on a black cigar when I go in to slip him the soothin' syrup. First off I explains elaborate what a sick man Mr. Runyon is, and all about the trained nurse and the private physician.
"Bah!" says Old Hickory. "I'll bet he's no more an invalid than I am. Just coddling himself, that's all. Got the private car habit, too! Why, I knew Marc Runyon when he thought an upper berth was the very lap of luxury; knew him when he'd grind his teeth over payin' a ten-dollar fee to a doctor. And now he's trying to buy back his digestion by hiring a private physician, is he? The simple-minded old sinner!"
"I expect you ain't seen much of him lately, Mr. Ellins?" I suggests.
Old Hickory hunches his shoulders careless.
"No," says he.
Then he gazes reminiscent at the ceilin'. I could tell by watchin' his lower jaw sort of loosen up that he was thinkin' of the old days, or something like that. It struck me as a good time to let things simmer. I drops back a step and waits. All of a sudden he turns to me and demands:
"Well, son?"
"If you could get away about three," says I, "Mr. Runyon's limousine will be waiting."
"Huh!" says he. "Well, I'll see. Perhaps."
"Yes, sir," says I. "Then you'll be wanting the dope on that terminal lease. Shall I dig it up?"