"Nor to the young lady, either," says I.
"Oh, I had to spill it to Marjorie, first crack," says he. "She's helping me hold my breath."
And then here yesterday mornin', as I'm helping Old Hickory sort the mail, he picks out a letter from our Western manager and slits it open.
"Hah!" says he, through his cigar. "I think this solves our problem, Torchy."
"Call in that young humorist of yours from the bond room," says he.
And I yanks Brink Hollis off the high stool impetuous.
"Know anything about industrial welfare work, young man?" demands Old Hickory of him.
"I've seen it mentioned in magazine articles," says Brink, "but that's about all. Don't think I ever read one."
"So much the better," says Mr. Ellins. "You'll have a chance to start in fresh, with your own ideas."