"Really, Ellins," says he, "I can't give you an answer to that. I--er--I must refer you to our Mr. Sturgis." "Eh?" snaps old Hickory. "Sturgis! Who the syncopated sculping is Sturgis?" "Why," says Mr. Jones, "Percey J. Sturgis. He is my personal agent in all such matters, and this--well, this happens to be his pet enterprise." "But it would parallel our proposed West Point line," says Mr. Ellins. "I know," says G. Wesley, sighin' weary. "But he secured his charter for this two years ago, and I promised to back him. He insists on pushing it through too. I can't very well call him off, you see." "Can't, eh?" raps out Old Hickory. "Then let me try. Send for him." "No use," says Mr. Jones. "He understands your attitude. He wouldn't come. I should advise, if you have any proposal to make, that you send a representative to him." "I go to him," snorts Mr. Ellins, "to this understrapper of yours, this Mr. Percey--er----" "Sturgis," puts in George Wesley. "He has offices in our building. And, really, it's the only way." Old Hickory glares and puffs like he was goin' to blow a cylinder head. But that's just what Hickory Ellins don't do at a time like this. When you think he's nearest to goin' up with a bang, that's the time when he's apt to calm down sudden and shift tactics. He does now. Motionin' me to come to the front, he takes the envelope I hands over, glances at it thoughtful a second, and then remarks casual: "Very well, Jones. I'll send a representative to your Mr. Sturgis. I'll send Torchy, here." I don't know which of us gasped louder, me or George Wesley. Got him in the short ribs, that proposition did. But, say, he's a game old sport, even if the papers are callin' him everything from highway robber to yellow dog. He shrugs his shoulders and bows polite. "As you choose, Ellins," says he. Maybe he thinks it's a bluff; but it's nothing like that. "Boy," says Old Hickory, handin' back the envelope, "go find Mr. Percey J. Sturgis, explain to him that the president of the P., B. & R. is bound under a personal agreement not to parallel any lines in which the Corrugated holds a one-third interest. Tell him I demand that he quit on this Palisades route. If he won't, offer to buy his blasted charter. Bid up to one hundred thousand, then 'phone me. Got all that?" "I could say it backwards," says I. "Shake the club first; then wave the kale at him. Do I take a flyin' start?" "Go now," says Old Hickory. "We will wait here until five. If he wants to know who you are, tell him you're my office boy." Wa'n't that rubbin' in the salt, though? But it ain't safe to stir up Hickory Ellins unless you got him tied to a post, and even then you want to use a long stick. As I sails out and grabs my new fall derby off the peg Piddie asks breathless: "What's the matter now, and where are you off to?" "Outside business for the boss," says I. "Buyin' up a railroad for him, that's all."