Old Hickory nods.
"Quite delicately, however," he goes on.
"The Lieutenant seems to have something on his mind—something heavy. I infer that he wishes to do a little inspecting."
"Oh!" says I.
You see, along late in the summer, one of our Wall Street men had copped out a whalin' big shell-case contract for us, gayly ignorin' the fact that this was clean out of our line.
How Old Hickory did roast him for it at the time! But when he come to figure out the profits, Mr. Ellins don't do a thing but rustle around, lease all the stray factories in the market, from a canned gas plant in Bayonne to a radiator foundry in Yonkers, fit 'em up with the proper machinery, and set 'em to turnin' out battle pills by the trainload.
"I gather," says Mr. Ellins, "that the Lieutenant suspects we are not taking elaborate precautions to safeguard our munition plants from—well, Heaven knows what. So if you could show him around and ease his mind any it would be helpful. At least, it would be a relief to me just now. Come in and meet him."
My idea was to chirk him up at the start.
"Howdy, Lieutenant," says I, extendin' the cordial palm.
But both the Lieutenant's eyes must have been wandering for he don't seem to notice my friendly play.