"I don't know whether he is or not, and don't care!" says she.
"Much obliged," says I; "but I ain't come to collect for anything. Couldn't you give a guess?"
"If I did," says she, "I'd say he was over to the factory yard. That's where he stays most of the time."
It's half-past five; but the fact'ry's runnin' full blast, and I has to jolly a timekeeper and the yard boss before I locates my man. Fin'lly, though, they point out a big storage shed in one corner of the coal cinder desert they has fenced in so careful. The wide double doors to the shed are shut; but after I've hammered for a while one of 'em is slid back a few inches and Tuttle peeks out.
"Oh!" he gasps. "You! Say, are they going to take it? Are they?"
"Them's the indications," says I, "providin' it's all O. K. and your price is right."
"Oh, I'll make the price low enough," says he. "I'll sell out for two thousand, and it ought to be worth twice that. But two is all I need."
"Eh?" says I. "What kind of finance do you call that? Say, Tuttle, you know you can't work any 'phony deal on the Corrugated. Better give me the straight goods and save trouble."
"I will," says he. "Come in, won't you!"
With that he leads the way through the dark shed to a sort of workshop at the back, where there's a window. There's a tool bench, a little hand forge with an old coffee pot and a fryin' pan on it, and a cot bed not ten feet away.