"It's simple enough, colonel," returned Matt.
"All right, then. Just sling your fist on the bottom line."
The colonel leaned over, laid the paper on the table, and Matt dashed off his signature. The colonel at once picked up the paper, blew on the ink to dry it, folded the document, and placed it in his pocket.
"Call at my office in the morning, King," finished the colonel, picking up his hat, "and I'll give you a letter to our head mechanic. Good night, gentlemen," and the colonel sailed out.
Carl stared at the closed door, and began industriously pinching himself.
"Be jeerful, be jeerful!" he muttered. "Vas I treaming, oder vas I vide avake? Py chimineddy, Matt, how luck climbs ofter itseluf to ged ad you! Oof you don'd preak your neck, you vas on der high roadt to more money as Vanderfeller or Rockypilt efer hat. How easy dot vas! Ach, du lieber! Do I go mit you py Gansas? Shpeak it oudt, kevick!"
Before Matt could "speak it out," however, the door fluttered open and a black face, topped with kinky white hair, was pushed into the room. Matt stared. The eyes of the negro met his and a wide grin parted the black face.
"By golly! Mistah Motah Matt, suh, habn't yo' got nuffin' tuh say tuh yo' 'fishul mascot?"
"Why, Uncle Tom!" cried Matt heartily, making a jump from his chair and grabbing the old negro by the hand. "Come in, old fellow," he added, pulling him into the room. "Where in the world did you drop from?"
"Unkle Dom!" muttered Carl. "Vell, vouldn't dot gif you der chillplains!"