Mr. Robert has just talked about three cylinders full of answers to the letters that's piled up while he's been gone, and as the girl goes out with the records he whirls around in the mahogany easy-chair and takes a good long look at me.
"If it comes as hard as all that," says I, "I'll write out my resignation."
"Mr. Piddie's been talking to you, I suppose?" says he.
"He's done everything but say mass over me," says I.
"Piddie is a good deal of an——" then he pulls up. "Where the deuce did he find you?"
"It wasn't him found me," says I; "it was a case of me findin' him; but if it hadn't been for your old man's buttin' in, that's all the good it would have done me."
"Ah!" says he. "That explains the mystery. By the way, son, what do they call you?"
"Guess," says I, and runs me fingers through it. "Just Torchy, and it suits me as well as Percival or Montgomery."
"Torchy is certainly descriptive," says he. "How long have you been doing office work?"
"Ever since I could lift a waste basket," says I.