"Really!" says he. "But what about the Balboa? Eh?"
"Oh!" says Mr. Robert casual. "The Balboa? Yes, yes! Didn't I tell someone to attend to that? A charter, wasn't it? Torchy, were you——"
I shakes my head.
"Perhaps it was Mr. Piddie, then," says he. "Anyway, I thought I asked——"
"Here's Piddie now, sir," says I. "Looks like he'd been after something."
He's a wreck, that's all. His derby is caved in, his black cutaway all smooched with lime or something, and one eye is tinted up lovely. In his right fist, though, he has a long yellow envelope.
"The charter!" he gasps out dramatic. "Balboa!"
And, by piecin' out more jerky bulletins, it's clear that Piddie has pulled off the prize stunt of his whole career. He'd gone out after that charter at lunchtime the day before, been stalled off by office clerks probably subsidized by the opposition, spent the night hangin' around the water-front, and got mixed up with a dock gang; but, by bein' on hand early, he'd caught one of the shippin' firm and closed the option barely two hours before it lapsed. And as he sinks limp into a chair he glances appealin' at Mr. Robert, no doubt expectin' to be decorated on the spot.
"By George!" says Mr. Robert. "Good work! But you haven't heard of my great luck meantime. Listen, Piddie. I am to be married!"
I thought Piddie would croak.