Torchy, Private Sec. | Page 8

off the pot, and coinin' the slag into dollars.
I ain't lettin' him slip over any gen'ral propositions on me, either. I'm right there with the Missouri stuff. He has to go clear back to first principles every time he makes a statement, and work up to it gradual. Course, I was keepin' him jollied along too, and while it must have been sort of hopeless at the start, inoculatin' a cauliflower like mine with higher chemistry, I fin'lly showed one or two gleams that encouraged him to keep on. Anyway, we hammered away at the subject, only stoppin' to make coffee and sandwiches, until near two o'clock in the mornin'.
"Help!" says I, glancin' at the nickel alarm clock. "My head feels like a stuffed sausage. A little more, and I won't know whether I'm a nitrous sulphide or a ferrous oxide of bromo seltzer. Let's take the rest in another dose."
Rowley chuckles and agrees to call it a day, I didn't let on anything at the office next morning; but by eight A.M. I was planted at the roll-top with my elbows squared, tryin' to write out as much of that chemistry dope as I could remember. And it's surprising ain't it, what a lot of information you can sop up when you do the sponge act in earnest? I found there was a lot of points, though, that I was foggy on; so I makes an early getaway and puts in another long session with Rowley.
And, take it from me, by Tuesday I was well loaded. Also I had my plan of campaign all mapped out; for you mustn't get the idea I was packin' my bean full of all this science dope just to see if it would stand the strain. Not so, Clarice! I'd woke up to the fact that I was bein' carried along by the Corrugated as a sort of misfit inner tube stowed in the bottom of the tool-box, and that it was up to me to make good.
So the first openin' I has I tackles Mr. Robert on the side.
"About that Rowley proposition?" says I.
"Oh, yes," says he. "I fear Mr. Briscoe thinks unfavorably of it."
"Then he's fruity in the pan," says I.
"We have been in the habit of accepting his judgment in such matters," says Mr. Robert.
"Maybe," says I; "but here's once when he's handin' you a stall. And you're missin' out on something good too."
Mr. Robert smiles skeptical. "Really?" says he. "Perhaps you would like to present a minority report?"
"Nothin' less," says I. "Oh, it may listen like a joke, but that's just what I got in mind."
"H-m-m-m!" says Mr. Robert. "You realize that Briscoe is one of the leading mining authorities in the country, I suppose, and that we pay him a large salary as consulting engineer?"
I nods. "I know," says I. "And the nearest I ever got to seein' a mine was watchin' 'em excavate for the subway. I'm admittin' all that."
"I may add too," goes on Mr. Robert, "that he has a way of stating his opinions quite convincingly."
"Yep," says I, "I should judge that. But if I think he's bilkin' you on this, is it my play to sit behind and chew my tongue?"
"By Jove!" says Mr. Robert, his sportin' instincts comin' to the top. "You shall have your chance, Torchy. The directors shall hear your views; to-morrow, at two-thirty. You will follow Briscoe."
"Let's not bill it ahead, then," says I, "if it'll be fair to spring it on him."
"Quite," says Mr. Robert; "and rather more amusing, I fancy. I will arrange it."
"I'd like to have old Rowley on the side lines, in case I get stuck," says I.
"Oh, certainly," says he. "Bring Mr. Rowley if you wish. And if there are any preparations you would like to make----"
"I got one or two," says I, startin' for the door; "so mark me off until about to-morrow noon."
Busy? Well, say, a kitten with four feet stuck in the flypaper didn't have anything on me. I streaks it for Sixth-ave. and lands in Rowley's loft all out of breath.
"What's up?" says he.
"The case of Briscoe et al. vs. Rowley," says I. "It's to be threshed out before the full Corrugated board to-morrow at two-thirty. I'm the counsel for the defense."
"Well, what of it?" says he.
"I want to use you as Exhibit A," says I, "in case of an emergency."
"All right," says he. "I'll go along if you say so."
"Good!" says I. And then came the hard part. "Rowley," I goes on, "what size collar do you wear?"
"But what has that to do with it?" says he.
"Now don't get peeved," says I; "but you know the kind our directors are,--flossy, silk-lined old sports, most of 'em; and they're apt to size up strangers a good deal by their haberdashery. So