"By the way," I goes on, "who's he sendin' out with the Nash work—Gedney Nash's, you know?"
"Number 17," says he, "Loppy Miller."
"What!" says I. "Old Loppy carryin' the book yet? Why, he had grown kids when I wore the stripes. Well, well! Cagy old duffer, Loppy. Ever ask him where he delivers the Nash business?"
"Yep," says the youngster, "and he near got me fired for it."
"But you found out, didn't you?" says I.
He glances at me suspicious and rolls his eyes. "M-m-m-m," says he, shakin' his head.
"Ah, come!" says I. "You don't mean that a real sure-fire like you could be shunted that way? There'd be no harm in your givin' a guess, and if it was right—well, we could run that birthday stake up five more; couldn't we, Mr. Ellins?"
Old Hickory nods, and passes me a five-spot prompt.
"Well?" says I, wavin' it careless.
The kid might have been scared, but he had the kale-itch in his fingers. "All I know," says he, "is that Loppy allus goes into the William Street lobby of the Farmers' National."