Listenin' to 'em was sort of interestin' to me, but Miss Prentice don't conceal the fact that she's bored stiff. Meanwhile we was wadin'

through a first-cla.s.s feed. And about nine o'clock Valentina announces that she'll have to be gettin' back to the schooner or pop'll be worried. Warrie says he'll send her down in a cab, and asks me if I'll go along to see that she gets there safe, which I says I will. She was bein' helped into the ulster when Warrie remembers someone else in Sand Spur.

"Oh, by the way," says he; "what about Elmer?"

Valentina laughs easy.

"Oh, he's the same Elmer," says she. "He's still foreman out at the swamp."

"Comes over every Sunday night as usual, eh?" asks Warrie.

She nods. "Wednesdays now, too," says she.

"Then," says Warrie, "you and Elmer are to--er--"

"Ah reckon," says Valentina. "Sometime this spring."

"Well, well!" says Warrie. Then, as kind of an afterthought, he holds out his hand. "My best wishes for you both," says he.

"Thanks," says Valentina, and gives him about half a smile. Next she glances towards Gladys. "Say," she goes on, "is--is she the one?"

"Yes," says Warrie.

"Same to you," says Valentina. "Good-by."

They shook hands once more--sort of a long, lingerin' shake, with their eyes steady to each other; and then--well, then I steers Valentina out past the grinnin' cloak-room boys and stows her in the taxi. She didn't have much to say on the way down. Nor I. And, take it from me, it's some ride from the Tarleton down to Pier 9, East River.

First thing next morning Mr. Robert wants to know how the reunion pa.s.sed off, and he listens bug-eyed as I describes the way we rung in on the dinner-party with Gladys.

"The deuce you did!" says he. "Just like Warrie to do that, though.

But, if I know Miss Prentice at all, she will pay him back for that little prank."

"Now you've said something!" says I.

"And Valentina," he adds reflectively, "is on her way back to Sand Spur, is she?"

"I expect that's where she belongs," says I; "and yet--"

"Well, yet what?" demands Mr. Robert, sort of quizzin'.

"I was only thinkin'," says I, "that if the cards could have been shuffled different, with Gladys startin' in Sand Spur and Valentina on the Avenue, Warrie might not have so many yawns comin' to him across the dinner-table. But then, maybe Elmer of the Swamp deserves some lucky breaks. Who knows?"

CHAPTER VI

A BALANCE FOR THE BOSS

You see, I was openin' the mornin' mail. Hope you get that part. Not that I want to seem chesty over it. Just goes to show, that's all.

For, of the whole force here at the General offices, there's just three of us can carve up the mornin' mail without gettin' fired for it. And the other two are Old Hickory and Mr. Robert.

H-m-m-m! Business of lookin' important. That's what it is to be a private sec. But, between you and me, this slicin' and sortin'

envelopes ain't such thrillin' work; mostly routine stuff--reports of department heads, daily statements from brokers, and so on. Now and then, though, you run across something rich. This was one of the times.

I was 'most through the pile when I comes to this pale pink affair with a heavy wax seal on the back. Perfumed, too, like lilacs. First off I thought it must be private, and I held the letter stabber in the air while I took a closer look. No. It's addressed just to the Corrugated Trust. So rip she goes. After I'd read it through twice I grins and puts it one side. When Mr. Robert blows in I hands the pink one to him first.

"We're discovered," says I. "Here's someone that hints polite how we're a bunch of strong-arms organized to rob the widow and orphan of their daily bread."

Mr. Robert takes one sniff, then holds it at arm's length while he runs it through. Gets a chuckle out of him, too.

"It's rather evident," says he, "that Mrs. Theodore Bayly Bagstock doesn't approve of us at all--though just why is not quite clear."

"That's easy," says I. "This Inter-Lake Navigation that she's beefin'

about was one of them little concerns we gathered in last fall. Paid something like fourteen, and our common at three and a half don't seem so good to her, I expect. Still, she got a double on her holdings by the deal, and with the melon we're goin' to cut next month--"

"Suppose, Torchy," breaks in Mr. Robert, tossing back the letter, "you answer the lady in your own direct and lucid way. You might suggest that we are neither highwaymen nor the a.s.sociated Charities, using any little whim of sarcasm that occurs to you."

I'd just thought out a real snappy come-back too, and was dictatin' it to a stenographer, when Old Hickory happens to drift by with his ear out. He stops short.

"Hold on," says he. "What Mrs. Bagstock is that?"

"Why, the peevish one, I expect, sir," says I.

"Let's see that letter," says he.

I pa.s.ses it over.

"Huh!" he goes on, rubbin' his chin reminiscent. "I wonder if that could be--er--young man, I think I'll answer this myself."

"Oh, very well, sir," says I, shruggin' my shoulders careless.

Must have been half an hour later when Old Hickory calls me into the private office, and I finds him still gazin' at the scented note.

"Torchy," says he, glancin' keen at me from Tinder his bushy eyebrows, "this Mrs. Bagstock seems to think we are using her badly. As a matter of fact, those Inter-Lake shareholders were lucky. We might have frozen them out altogether. You understand, eh?"

I nods.

"But I can't put that in a letter," he goes on. "It could be explained in a personal interview, however."

"I get you," says I. "I'll 'phone for her to come around."

"No!" he roars. "You'll do nothing of the sort. What the rhythmic rhomboids put that into your head? I don't want to see the woman.

I'll not see her, not on any pretext. Understand?"

"I think so," says I.

"Then get your hat," says he.

"Yes, sir," says I, edging out.