Well, it was some warm contest, believe me, with them two joshin' back and forth, and at the game time usin' as much foxy strategy as if they was stealin' railroads away from each other! They must have been at it for near half an hour when a maid slips in and whispers how Mr. Robert is callin' for me on the wire. So I puts her on to sub for me with the bag while I slides into the 'phone booth. "Sure, Mr. Robert," says I, "I'm still on the job." "But what is happening?" says he. "Didn't Groff come up?" "Yep," says I. "He's here yet." "You don't say!" says Mr. Robert. "Whe-e-ew! He and the governor having it hot and heavy, I suppose?" "And then some," says I. "Peter K. took first round 12-17, he tied the second, and now he's trapped in the fireplace on a bad ten." "Wha-a-at?" gasps Mr. Robert. "Uh-huh," says I. "Mr. Ellins is layin' under the piano,--only seven, but stimied for an approach." "In Heaven's name, Torchy," says Mr. Robert, "what do you mean? Mr. Groff trapped in the fireplace, father lying under the piano--why----" "Ah, didn't Piddie tell you? The boob!" says I. "It's just golf, that's all--indoor kind--a batty variation that they made up themselves. But don't fret. Everything's all lovely, and I guess the Corrugated is saved. Come up and look 'em over." Yep! Peter K. got the decision by slipping over a smear in the fourth, after which him and Old Hickory leans up against each other and laughs until their eyes leak. Then Marston wheels in the tea wagon full of decanters and club soda, and when I left they was clinkin' glasses real chummy. "Son," says Old Hickory, as he pads into the office about noon next day, "I believe I forgot the usual caddie fee. There you are." "Z-z-z-zing!" says I, starin' after him. Cute little strips of Treasury kale, them with the C's in the corners, aren't they? Well, I should worry! CHAPTER VII COMING IN ON THE DRAW Nothin' like bein' a handy man around the shop. Here at the Corrugated I'm worked in for almost any old thing, from seein' that Mr. Ellins takes his gout tablets regular, to arrangin' the directors' room for the annual meeting and when it comes to subbin' for Mr. Robert--say, what do you guess is the latest act he bills me for? Art expert! Yep, A-r-t, with a big A! Sounds foolish, don't it? But at that it wa'n't such a bad hunch on his part. He's a rash promiser, Mr. Robert is; but a shifty proposition when you try to push a programme on him, for the first thing you know he's slid from under. I suspicioned some play like that was comin' here the other afternoon when Sister Marjorie shows up at the general offices and asks pouty, "Where's Robert?" "On the job," says I. "Session of the general sales agents today, you know." "But he was to meet me at the Broadway entrance half an hour ago," says she, "and I've been sitting in the car waiting for him. Call him out, won't you, Torchy?"