"Gwan!" says I. "Nobody's rockin' the boat but you. Go sit on your checkbooks."
They just glares at me.
"Where is Old Hickory?" one of 'em wants to know.
"About now," says I, "Mr. Ellins would be finishin' the last of three soft-boiled eggs. He'll show up here at nine-forty-five."
"Mr. Robert Ellins, then?" demands another.
"Say, I'm no puzzle editor," says I. "Maybe he'll be here to-day and maybe he won't."
"But we couldn't find him yesterday, either," comes back an old goat with tufts in his ears.
"That's a way he has these days," says I.
No use tryin' to smooth things over. It's Mr. Robert they'd been sore on all along, suspectin' him of startin' all the wild schemes just because he's young. I'd heard 'em, after they'd moved into the directors' room, insistin' that he ought to be asked to resign. And what they was beefin' specially about to-day was because of a tale that a Chicago syndicate had jumped in and bought the Balboa, a 10,000-ton Norwegian freighter that we was supposed to have an option on. It was the final blow. That satisfied 'em they was being sold out, and their best guess was that Mr. Robert was turnin' the trick.
I was standin' by, listenin' to the general grouch develop, and wonderin' how long before they'd organize a lynchin' committee, when I hears the brass gate slam, and into the private office breezes Mr. Robert himself, lookin' fresh and chirky, his hat tilted well back, and swingin' a bamboo walkin'-stick. When he sees me, he springs a wide grin and grabs me by the shoulders.