Hickory. "He should have stayed awhile and allowed Torchy to give him a few pointers on evolving things from primal facts."

"Ye-e-e-es, Sir," says Piddie, his face all tinted up lovely.

Which winds up, as you might say, the Mystery of the Fifth Bouquet. But, believe me, there ain't any tamer party around the shop these days than this same J. Hemmingway Piddie. And if the old habits get to croppin' out any time, all I got to do is shut one eye, put my finger to my lips, and whisper easy, "Ah, go tell that to Doc Bungstarter!" That gets him behavin'.

And Cubbins, why--he's blossomed out in a new fall suit, and he stops at the desk every few days to tell me how he put it all over Jimmy the night before. So that was some stroke, what?

CHAPTER III

WHEN IRA SHOWED SOME PEP

It was good domework of Mr. Robert's to tip me off about this Higgins party, or there's no knowin' how hard a time he might have had gettin' through the brass gate. As it is, the minute I spots the watch chain and the round cuffs and the neck freckles, I sizes him up as the expected delegate from the fresh mackerel and blueberry pie district. One of these long, lanky specimens, he is, with a little stoop to his shoulders, ginger-colored hair and mustache, and a pair of calm, sea-blue eyes that look deep and serious.

I finds him pacin' deliberate up and down the waitin' room at eight-fifty-three A.M., which is two minutes ahead of my schedule for openin' the Corrugated for gen'ral business. His overcoat and a crumpled mornin' paper are on the bench; so I figures he's been there quite some time. Course, it might have been a stray Rube of most any name; but I thinks I'll take a chance.

"Mornin', Ira," says I.

"Howdy," says he, as natural as if this was a reg'lar habit of ours. Which puts it up to me to find out if I'm right, after all.

"Mr. Higgins, ain't it?" says I.

He nods.

"When did you get in?" says I.

"About six," says he.

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