Anyway, Old Hickory has chewed up four brunette cigars the size of young baseball bats, two of the Board have threatened to resign, and a hurry call has just been sent out for our chief counsel to report, when Mr. Robert glances annoyed towards the door.  It’s nobody but fair-haired Vincent, that has my old place on the gate, and he’s merely peekin’ in timid, tryin’ to signal someone.

“For heaven’s sake, Torchy,” says Mr. Robert, “see what that boys wants.  I’ve already waved him away twice.  Of course, if it is anything important—­”

“I get you,” says I, passing over to him the tabulated reports I’d been sittin’ tight with.  Then I slips out to where Vincent is waitin’.

“Buildin’ on fire?” says I.

“Why, no, sir,” says be, goin’ bug-eyed.

“Oh!” says I.  “Then who you got waitin’ out there—­Secretary Daniels or the Czar of Russia?”

Vincent pinks up like a geranium and smiles shy, like he always does when he’s kidded.  “If you please, sir,” says he, “it’s only a lady; to see Mr. Mason, sir.”

“Huh!” says I.  “Lady trailin’ old K. W. here, eh?  Must be one of the fam’ly.”

“Oh no, sir,” says Vincent.  “I’m quite sure it isn’t.”

“Then shunt her, Vincent,” says I.  “For you can take it from me, K. W. is in no mood to talk with stray females at the present writing.  Shoo her.”

“Ye-e-e-es, sir,” says he; “but—­but I wish you would see her a moment yourself, sir.”

“If it’s as bad as that,” says I, “I will.”

Pretty fair judgment Vincent has too, as a rule, even if he does look like a mommer’s boy.  Course, he can’t give agents and grafters the quick back-up, like I used to.  He side-tracks ’em so gentle, they go away as satisfied as if they’d been invited in; and I don’t know but his method works just as well.  It ain’t often they put anything over on him, either.

So I’m surprised and grieved to see what’s waitin’ for one of our plutiest directors outside the brass rail.  In fact, I almost gasps.  Lady!  More like one of the help from the laundry.  The navy blue print dress with the red polka dots was enough for one quick breath, just by itself.  How was that for an afternoon street costume to blow into the Corrugated general offices with on a winter’s day?  True, she’s wearin’ a gray sweater and what looked like a man’s ulster over it; but there’s no disguisin’ the fact that the droopy-brimmed black sailor was a last summer’s lid.  Anyway, the whole combination seems to amuse the lady typists.

This party of the polka dots, though, don’t seem to notice the stir she’s causin’, or don’t mind if she does.  A slim, wiry young female she is, well along in the twenties, I should say.  What struck me most about her was the tan on her face and hands and the way her hair was faded in streaks.  Sort of a general outdoor look she had, which is odd enough to see on Broadway any time of year.