"Son," says he, "can any of that wait?"
"Guess it wouldn't spoil, sir," says I, switchin' off the duflicker.
"Good!" says he. "I think I can employ your peculiar talents to better advantage for the next few hours. I trust that you are prepared to face the British War Office?"
Suspectin' that he's about to indulge in his semi-annual josh, I only grins expectant.
"We have with us this morning," he goes on, "one Lieutenant Cecil Fothergill, just arrived from London. Perhaps you saw him as he was shown in half an hour or so ago?"
"The solemn-lookup gink with the long face, one wanderin' eye, and the square-set shoulders?" says I. "Him in the light tan ridin'-breeches and the black cutaway?"
"Precisely," says Mr. Ellins.
"Huh!" says I. "Army officer? I had him listed as a rail-bird from the Horse Show."
"He presents credentials signed by General Kitchener," says Old Hickory. "He's looking up munition contracts. Not the financial end. Nor is he an artillery expert. Just exactly what he is here for I've failed to discover, and I am too busy to bother with him."
"I get you," says I. "You want him shunted."