"Boy!" he sings out. "What the hyphenated maledictions are you doing there?"
Well, I broke it to him as gentle as I could.
"Promoted, eh?" he snorts. "To what?"
And I explains how I'm private secretary to the president of the Mutual Funding Company.
"Never heard of such an organization," says he. "What is it, anyway?"
"Dummy concern mostly," says I, "faked up to stall off the I. C. C."
"Eh?" he gawps.
"Interstate Commerce Commission," says I. "We beat 'em to it, you know, by dissolvin'—on paper. Had to have somebody to use the rubber stamp; so they picked me off the gate."
"Humph!" he grunts. "So you're no longer an office boy, eh? But I had you hopping around like one. How was that?"
"Guess I got a hop or two left in me," says I, "specially for you, Mr. Ellins."