CHAPTER IX
REPORTING BLANK ON RUPERT
And yet, I've had people ask me if this private sec. job didn't get sort of monotonous! Does it? Say, listen a while!
I was breezin' through the arcade here the other noon, about twenty minutes behind my lunch schedule, when someone backs away from the marble wall tablets the agents have erected in honor of them firms that keep their rent paid. Some perfect stranger it is, who does the reverse goose step so unexpected that there's no duckin' a collision. Quite a substantial party he is, too, and where my nose connects with his shoulder he's built about as solid as a concrete pillar.
"Say," I remarks, when the aurora borealis has faded out and I can see straight again, "if you're goin' to carom around that way in public, you ought to wear pads."
"Oh, I'm sorry," says he. "I didn't mean to be so awkward. Hope you're not hurt, sir."
Then I did do some gawpin'. For who'd ever expect a big, rough-finished husk like that, would have such a soft, ladylike voice concealed about him? And the "sir" was real soothin'.
"It's all right," says I. "Guess I ain't disabled for life. Next time, though, I'll be particular to walk around."
"But really," he goes on, "I—I'm not here regularly. I was just trying to find a name—a Mr. Robert Ellins."
"Eh?" says I. "Lookin' for Mr. Robert, are you?"