"Beelzebub signed it. I guess I know the John Henry of your Number Two devil even if I am a dumb ferryman." Perhaps sensing he had blundered, Charon almost wept. "This paper appoints me head bridge-tender from now to the _end_ of eternity, and, bein' worried about my job, I hopped right to it. You're the first--" "Which way did he go? What's he look like?" Charon almost said "Thataway," as he shook his head and pointed a trembling finger to the distant shore. "Lemme see. He wore neat clothes about like mine, and he zoomed off like the upper crust shades do when in a hurry--which ain't often. He has mean little eyes, sort of pale blue, is built wide and short, and talks American good as I do. Now't I think of it, he had an impederiment in his speech, and he smelt like a bed of sweet peas." "Very good, indeed." Scanning the paper, Nick smiled as he recognized a forgery of the Beelzebub signature. He drew out his pen which writes under fire as well as water, and scribbled "Nick," then put the document into the eager hands. "This gives you the job forever--or till I revoke the appointment." "Boydy-dumb-deals!" Charon shouted. "Boss, you oughta hear about my adventures in Redland. I had a real gabfest with the new Premier, Andrei Broncov, and his Minister of Culture, Vichy Volonsky." Nick grinned sardonically. "I heard a little about the most recent changes in the Kremlin. Are my old sidekicks well? And are they having any particular trouble since liquidating the old gang?" "How come you call that fat crumb, Broncov, your sidekick?" Charon frowned, trying to collect his wits in the dread presence. "He didn't ask about you. He took me for an illegitimate son of Joe Stalin's, so how would he know you and I are pals? I bought this red tie and hired a sleeping dictionary to catch onto the language better, and--" "Your dictionary probably spilled things to the MVD." "Not while my gold held out. Anyhow, those punks are way overrated. Tricky, maybe, and they lie good. They'd rather bump you off than eat breakfast." "Purge is the word. The old comrades Broncov threw out a month ago now fully understand its meaning. How is the comrade?" "Gosh, boss, I'm sick of hearing that word. They say it just before they knife you. Broncov's been busy, all right. Since taking over the Number One job he's been sending a lot of his best friends down this way. To keep Joe Stalin company, he told me. He looks fat even if Bill Shakespeare says this new lot--" "I suppose he and his pals plied you with liquor," Nick said.