"Why not?" says Mr. Robert. "Then, if you should choose to stay and prime yourself with facts about those debentures, there is that extra desk in my office, you know. Would you mind using that?"
"But see here, Mr. Robert," says I, "I wa'n't plannin' any masquerade, either."
"Quite so," says he; "nor I. It so happens, though, that the gentleman whose name appears as president of our Mutual Funding Company is—well, hardly in active business life. It is necessary that he be represented here in some nominal capacity. The directors are now meeting in Room 19. I have authority to name a private secretary pro tem. Do you accept the position?"
"With a pro-tem. salary, stage money barred?" says I.
"Oh, most certainly," says he.
"Then I'm the guy," says I.
"Good!" says Mr. Robert. "These debentures come in your department. I will notify Mr. Piddie that——"
"Say, Mr. Robert," says I, grinnin' once more, "I'd break it gentle to Piddie."
I don't know whether he did or not; for five minutes after that Heiny has my old seat, and I'm inside behind the ground-glass door, sittin' at a reg'lar roll-top, with a lot of file cases spread out, puzzlin' over this incorporation junk that makes the Fundin' Comp'ny the little joker in the Corrugated deck.
And next thing I know in comes Heiny, gawpin' foolish, and trailin' behind him Aunty and Vee. I wa'n't throwin' any bluff about tryin' to look busy, either. I was elbow-deep in papers, with a pen behind one ear and ink on three fingers.