"You might just as well resign your portfolio if you do," says I. "Remember the callin' down, you got from Old Hickory last week."
Vincent shudders. "I'll do my best, sir," says he.
And he's a thorough goin', conscientious youth. Within the next few hours I had to rescue one of our directors, our first assistant Western manager, and a personal friend of Mr. Robert's, all of whom Vincent had parked on the bench in the anteroom and was eyein' cold, and suspicious. He even holds up the Greek who came luggin' in the fresh towels, and Tony the spring water boy.
"I feel like old Horatius," says Vincent.
"Never met him," says I, "but whoever he was I'll bet you got him lookin' like one of the seven sleepers. That's the stuff, though. Keep it up."
I expect I was some wakeful myself, too. I worked with my eyes ready to roll over my shoulder and my right ear stretched. I was playin' the part of right worthy inside guard, and nobody came within ten feet of the private office door but what I'd sized 'em up before they could reach the knob. Still, two whole days passed without any attack on the first line trenches. The third day Vincent and I had a little skirmish with a mild-eyed young gent who claimed he wanted to see Mr. Ellins urgent, but he turns out to be only a law clerk from the office of our general solicitors bringin' up some private papers to be signed.
Then here Friday—and it was Friday the 13th, too—Vincent comes sleuthin' in to my desk and shows me a card.
"Well," says I, "who does this H. Munson Schott party say he is?"
"That's just it," says Vincent. "He doesn't say. But he has a letter of introduction to Mr. Ellins from the Belgian Consul General. Rather an important looking person, too."
"H-m-m-m!" says I, runnin' my fingers through my red hair thoughtful.