Say, what's next to knowin' when you're well off? Why, thinkin' you
are.

Which is a little nugget of wisdom I panned out durin' a chat I had not
long ago with Mr. Quinn, that I used to work under when I was on the
door of the Sunday sheet, three or four years back.

"Hail, Torchy!" says he, as we meets accidental on Broadway. "Still
carrying the burning bush under your hat, aren't you?"

I grins good-natured at his old josh, just as I used to about twice a
week regular, and admits that I am.

"You wa'n't lookin' for me to fade to an ash blond, was you?" says I.

"Ah!" says he. "I see the brilliance is not all on the outside. Well,
what use are you putting it to? Who are you with now?"

"Same concern," says I. "Corrugated Trust."

"As First, or Second Vice President?" says he, cockin' his head on one
side humorous.

"Add 'em together and multiply by three," says I, "then you'll be warm."

"I don't quite get the result," says he.

"Ever hear of an office-boy-de-luxe?" says I. "They don't print it on
the letter-heads yet, or paint it on the ground-glass, but that's my
real label. I'm the only one in New York, too."

Mr. Quinn chuckles and goes off shakin' his head. I expect he's
disappointed that I've stuck so long in one shop without climbin'
further up the ladder. That's what he was always preachin' at me, this
ladder-climbin' advice. But say, hod carriers do that. Me for an
express elevator when the time comes.

But meanwhile, with a couple of bosses like Old Hickory Ellins and Mr.
Robert, it ain't so worse sittin' behind the brass rail. That's one
reason I ain't changed. Also there's that little mine enterprise me

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