CHAPTER XIII
THE MANTLE OF SANDY THE GREAT
"Vincent," says I, as I blows in through the brass gate from lunch, "who's the poddy old party you got parked on the bench out in the anteroom?"
"He's waiting to see Mr. Ellins," says Vincent. "This is his third try. Looks to me like some up-state stockholder who wants to know when Corrugated common will strike 110."
"Well, that wouldn't be my guess exactly," says I. "What's the name?"
"Dowd," says Vincent, reachin' for a card. "Matthew K"
"Eh," says I. "Mesaba Matt. Dowd? Say, son, your guesser is way out of gear. You ought to get better posted on the Order of Who-Who's."
"I'm sorry," says Vincent, pinkin' up in the ears. "Is—is he somebody in particular?"
"Only one of the biggest iron ore men in the game," says I. "That is, he was until he unloaded that Pittsburgh syndicate a few years ago. Also he must be a special crony of Old Hickory's. Anyway, he was playin' around with him down South last month. And here we let him warm a seat out in the book-agent pen! Social error, Vincent."