He ain't a real live wire, this heavy-faced, wide-shouldered, squatty-built party with the bumper crop of curly black hair. He blinks his big, full eyes kind of solemn, starin' at me puzzled, and about as intelligent as a cow gazin' over a fence. An odd lookin' gink he was, sort of a cross between a dressed up bartender on his day off and a longshoreman havin' his picture taken. "Excuse," says he, rousin' a little, "but--but it is not to peddle. I would wish to speak with Mr. Robert Ellins." "Well, then, you can't," says I, wavin' towards the door; "so beat it!" This don't make any more impression than as if I'd tried to push him over with one finger. "I would wish," he begins again, "to speak with----" "Say, that's all on the record," says I, "and the motion's been denied." "But I----" he starts in once more, "I have----" Just then Piddie comes turkeyin' over pompous and demands to know what all the debate is about. "Look what wants to see Mr. Robert!" says I. "Impossible!" says Piddie, takin' one look. "Send him away at once!" "Hear that?" says I to Curlylocks. "Not a chance! Fade, Spaghetti, fade!" The full force of that decision seems to penetrate his nut; for he gulps hard once or twice, the muscles on his thick throat swells up rigid, and next a big round tear leaks out of his off eye and trickles down over his cheek. Maybe it don't look some absurd too, seein' signs of such deep emotion on a face like that. "Now, none of that, my man!" puts in Piddie, who's as chicken hearted as he is peevish. "Torchy, you--you attend to him." "What'll I do," says I, "call in a plumber to stop the leak?" "Find out who he is and what he wants," says he, "and then pack him off. I am very busy." "Well," says I, turnin' to the thick guy, "what's the name?" "Me?" says he. "I--I am Zandra Popokoulis." "Help!" says I. "Popo--here, write it on the pad." But even when he's done that I can't do more than make a wild stab at sayin' it. "Oh yes, thanks," I goes on. "Popover for short, eh? Think Mr. Robert would recognise you by that?" "Excuse, Sir," says he, "but at the club he would speak to me as Mike." "Oh, at the club, eh?" says I. "Say, I'm beginnin' to get a glimmer. Been workin' at one of Mr. Robert's clubs, have you?" "I am his waiter for long time, Sir," says Popover. Course, the rest was simple. He'd quit two or three months ago to take a trip back home, havin' been promised by the head steward that he could have his place again any time inside of a year. But imagine the base perfidy! A second cousin of the meat chef has drifted in meanwhile, been set to work at Popover's old tables, and the result is that when Mike reports to claim his job he gets the cold, heartless chuck. "Why not rustle another, then?" says I.