We finds old Z. K. already on the ground, unloadin' a morning grouch on a landscape architect.
"Be with you in a minute, Robert," says he. "Just wander in and look around."
That wasn't so easy as it sounded, for all through the big rooms was scaffolds and ladders and a dozen or more original members of the Overalls Club splashin' mortar and paint around. I was glancin' at these horny-handed sons of toil sort of casual when all of a sudden I spots one guy in a well-daubed suit of near-white ducks who looks strangely familiar. Walkin' up to the step-ladder for a closer view I has to stop and let out a chuckle. It's Hartley.
"Well, well!" says I. "So you did have to crawl back, eh?"
"Eh?" says he, almost droppin' a pail of white paint. "Why, hello, Torchy!"
"I see you're workin' for a real boss now," says I.
"Who do you mean?" says he.
"The old man," says I, grinnin'.
"Not much!" says Hartley. "He's only the owner, and precious little bossing he can do on this job. I'm working for McNibbs, the contractor."
"You—you mean you're a reg'lar painter?" says I, gawpin'.