"Up to Mr. Nash's," says I casual, makin' a move to walk right past.
"Back up!" says he, steppin' square across the way. "What Mr. Nash?"
"Whadye mean, what Mr. Nash?" says I. "There ain't clusters of 'em, are there? Mr. Gedney Nash, of course."
"Wrong street," says he. "Try around on Broadway."
"What a kidder!" says I. "But if you will delay the champion hen expert of the country," and I nods to Old Hickory, "just send word up to Mr. Nash that Mr. Skellings has come with that pair of silver-slashed blue Orpingtons he wanted to see."
"Blue which?" says the guard.
"Ah, take a look!" says I. "Ain't they some birds? Gold medal winners, both of 'em."
I holds open the paper wrappings while he inspects the cacklers. And, believe me, they was the fanciest poultry specimens I'd ever seen! Honest, they looked like they'd been got up for the pullets' annual costume ball.
"And Mr. Nash," I goes on, "said Mr. Skellings was to bring 'em in this way."
The guard takes another glance at Old Hickory, and that got him; for in his high-crowned Panama the boss does look more like a fancy farmer than he does like the head of the Corrugated.