“What name?” says I.

“Why,” says he, flushin’ up, “I—­er—­I work here.”

“Excuse,” says I, drawin’ back the foot.  “Mistook you for Alfy Vanderbilt come to buy us out.”

“Puppy!” says he explosive through his front teeth.

“Meanin’ me?” says I.  “Why, Algernon!  How rough of you!”

He just glares hack over his shoulder and passes on for his session with Miller.  I’ll bet he got it too; for here in the Corrugated we don’t stand for any of that nine-thirty dope except from Mr. Robert.

It’s only the next week, though, that Mortimer pulls a couple more delayed entrances in succession, and I sure was lookin’ to see him come out with a fresh-air pass in his hand.  But it didn’t happen.  Instead, as I’m in Old Hickory’s office a few days later, allowin’ him to give me a few fool directions about an errand, in breaks Miller all glowin’ under the collar.

“Mr. Ellins,” says he, “I can’t stand that young Upton.  He’s got to go!”

“That’s too bad,” says Old Hickory, shiftin’ his cigar to port.  “I’d promised his father to give the boy a three months’ trial at least.  One of our big stockholders, Colonel Upton is, you know.  But if you say you can’t——­”

“Oh, I suppose I can, Sir, in that case,” says Miller; “but he’s worse than useless in the department, and if there’s no way of getting him to observe office hours it’s going to be bad for discipline.”

“Try docking him, Miller,” suggests Mr. Ellins.  “Dock him heavy.  And pile on the work.  Keep him on the jump.”

“Yes, Sir,” says Miller, grinnin’ at me’ as he goes out.

And of course this throws a brighter light on Mortimer’s case,—­pampered son takin’ his first whirl at honest toil, and all that.  Then later in the day I gets a little private illumination.  Mother arrives.  Rather a gushy, talky party she is, with big, snappy eyes like Mortimer’s, and the same haughty airs.  Just now, though, she’s a little puffy from excitement and deep emotion.

Seems Mother and Sister Janice are on their way to the steamer, billed to spend the winter abroad.  Also it develops that stern Father, standin’ grim and bored in the background, has ruled that Son mustn’t quit business for any farewell lallygaggin’ at the pier.  Hence the fam’ly call.  As the touchin’ scene all takes place in the reception room, just across the brass rail from my desk, I’m almost one of the party.

“Oh, my darling boy!” wails Ma, pushin’ back her veils and wrappin’ him in the fond clinch.

“Aw, Mother!” protests Mortimer.

“But we are to be so far apart,” she goes on, “and with your father in California you are to be all alone!  And I just know you’ll be forlorn and lonesome in that dreadful boarding house!  Oh, it is perfectly awful!”

“Oh, quit it, Mother.  I’ll be all right,” says Mortimer.

“But the work here,” comes back Mother.  “Does it come so hard?  How are you to stand it?  Oh, if you had only kept on at college, then all this wouldn’t have been necessary.”