"Oh, yes," says I. "That's as plain as a dropped egg on a plate of hash. But say, Buddy; you tell Mr. Dawes that next time he wants me just to pull the string. If that don't work, he can whistle; and when he gets tired of whistlin', and I ain't there, he'll know I ain't comin'. Got them directions? Well, think hard, and maybe you'll figure it out later. Ta, ta, Mister Secretary." With that I hangs up the receiver and winks at Swifty Joe. "Swifty," says I, "they'll be usin' us for rubber stamps if we don't look out." "Who was the guy?" says he. "Some pinhead up to Fletcher Dawes's," says I. "Hully chee!" says Swifty. Funny, ain't it, how most everyone'll prick up their ears at that name? And it don't mean so much money as John D.'s or Morgan's does, either. But what them two and Harriman don't own is divided up among Fletcher Dawes and a few others. Maybe it's because Dawes is such a free spender that he's better advertised. Anyway, when you say Fletcher Dawes you think of a red-faced gent with a fistful of thousand-dollar bills offerin' to buy the White House for a stable. But say, he might have twice as much, and I wouldn't hop any quicker. I'm only livin' once, and it may be long or short, but while it lasts I don't intend to do the lackey act for anyone. Course, I thinks the jolt I gave that secretary chap closes the incident. But around three o'clock that same day, though, I looks down from the front window and sees a heavy party in a fur lined overcoat bein' helped out of a shiny benzine wagon by a pie faced valet, and before I'd done guessin' where they was headed for they shows up in the office door. "My name is Dawes. Fletcher Dawes," says the gent in the overcoat. "I could have guessed that," says I. "You look somethin' like the pictures they print of you in the Sunday papers." "I'm sorry to hear it," says he. But say, he's less of a prize hog than you'd think, come to get near--forty-eight around the waist, I should say, and about a number sixteen collar. You wouldn't pick him out by his face as the kind of a man that you'd like to have holdin' a mortgage on the old homestead, though, nor one you'd like to sit opposite to in a poker game--eyes about a quarter of an inch apart, lima bean ears buttoned down close, and a mouth like a crack in the pavement. He goes right at tellin' what he wants and when he wants it, sayin' he's a little out of condition and thinks a few weeks of my trainin' was just what he needed. Also he throws out that I might come up to the Brasstonia and begin next day. "Yes?" says I. "I heard somethin' like that over the 'phone." "From Corson, eh?" says he. "He's an ass! Never mind him. You'll be up to-morrow?" "Say," says I, "where'd you get the idea I went out by the day?" "Why," says he, "it seems to me I heard something about----" "Maybe they was personal friends of mine," says I. "That's different. Anybody else comes here to see me."