Piddie swallows that throat pippin of his two or three times before he can get a grip on his feelings enough to go on with the lesson of the day. "I merely wish to remark," says he, "that evil communications corrupt good manners."
"How about court Judges, then," says I, "and these slum missionaries'? G'wan, Piddie! Back to the copybook with your mottoes! I'm a mixer, I am! Would I be chinnin' here with you if I wa'n't?"
He sighs, Piddie does, and struts away to freeze the soul of some new lady typist by looking over her shoulder. As an act of charity, they ought to let Piddie fire me about once a month. He'll die of grief if he don't get the chance sometime.
And blamed if he don't come near gettin' his heart's desire before the day was over!
It all begins about three o'clock, when Piddie comes turkeyin' out of the telephone booth all swelled up with importance and signals me to come on the carpet.
"Torchy," says he, "I presume you know where the Metropolitan Building is?"
"They ain't moved it since lunchtime, have they?" says I.
"That will do!" says he. "Now listen very carefully."
You'd thought from his preamble that I was going to be sent up to regulate the clock, or see if the tower was still plumb; but all it simmers down to is that I'm to take a leather document case, hunt up Mr. Ellins, who's attendin' a directors' meetin' over there, and deliver some papers that he's forgot to have his private secretary lug along.
"And kindly refrain," he tacks on at the last, "from stopping to talk with any suspicious characters on the way."