Now I ain't sayin' he's the toughest lookin' A. D. T. that ever sat on a call bench, for maybe I've seen worse; but with his bent-in nose, and his pop eyes, and that undershot jaw—well, he ain't one you'd send in to quiet a cryin' baby. Hunch didn't pose for that picture of the sweet youth on the blue signs outside the district offices. They don't pick him out for these theater-escort snaps, either.
Which shows how far you can go on looks, anyway; for, if I was going to trust my safety-vault key with anyone, it would be Hunch. Not that they'll ever use him to decorate any stained-glass window; but I never look for him to land on the rock pile.
Course, I don't see much of Hunch and the rest these days; but it ain't a case of dodgin' old friends on my part, so me and him hangs up against a radiator in the main corridor and talks it over. I wants to know if Stiff Miller is still manager down at No. 11 branch, and who's wearin' the red stripe yet; while Hunch he puts over a few polite quizzes as to how I'm gettin' on with the Corrugated people.
We hadn't been gassin' but five minutes or so, and there's ten more due on the clock before lunch hour is over, when I looks up to see our Mr. Piddie going by and givin' me the frown. I knew what that meant. It's another call-down. He has plenty of time to work up his case; for I takes the limit and don't hang up my hat until the life-insurance chimes has done their one-o'clock stunt. And I'm hardly settled behind the brass gate before Piddie is down on me with the old mushy-mouthed reproof.
"One is known," says he, "by the company one keeps."
"I'm no New Theater manager," says I. "What's the answer?"
"I observed you loitering in the lower corridor," says he. "That is all."
"Oh!" says I. "You seen me conversin' with Mr. Leary, eh?"
"Mr. Leary!" says Piddie, raisin' his eyebrows.
"Well, Hunch, then," says I. "Tryin' to get up a grouch because you wa'n't introduced? Don't take it hard. He's kind of exclusive, Mr. Leary is."