A movement in the corner room sent Mr. Jones scurrying to his desk. From the street sounded the staccato taps of a snare drum, rhythmically punctuated by the boom of the bass, passing up the street. Obadiah emerged from his room as one marching to martial music. He broke step like a rooky to tell his stenographer, "I'm going to lunch." Leaping to his feet, Mr. Jones bowed profoundly as his employer departed, his manner filled with the awe and respect due a man of such wealth and position. He listened intently until the elevator descended, then he shouted, "Get a move on you, in there. He's gone." The bookkeeper appeared, his hat on the back of his head and struggling into his coat. "Hurry, we can get the elevator on its next trip," urged the stenographer. "What's the rush--we don't want to run into the old man," the bookkeeper demurred. "We've got a right to eat, ain't we? What's the lunch hour for?" "Say, who's talking about not eating? I don't want the old man's face as an appetizer," protested Kelly. "Gee, he has got you bluffed. You are scared of him." The bookkeeper shrugged his big shoulders and laughed. "Not on your life am I afraid of that old spider, but I don't like him. That's all." "The old man is a good enough scout when you know how to handle him," boasted Mr. Jones. "Tell him where to get off once in awhile and he'll eat out of your hand." "Say," chuckled Kelly. "The next time you decide to call him down, put me wise. I don't want to miss it." "Quit your kidding and come on. You think that I am shooting hot air. I'll show you some day." Their hasty luncheon was completed when the strains of music heralding the return of the minstrel show hurried them forth to the curb to procure suitable places to watch the parade. "Kelly, look at the pickaninnies in the automobile following the band," exclaimed Mr. Jones, greatly interested. "That's something new. I never saw it before." Thus he confirmed originality from the wealth of his own knowledge. "What's the white girl doing there?" Kelly sought information at the fountain of wisdom. The sagacious Mr. Jones was puzzled, but for an instant only. He elucidated. "They have a white manager and that's his wife who won't black up." The explanation struck Kelly as reasonable and for the moment it sufficed, as he gave his attention to the passing machine. "That's a peach of a car," he proclaimed, and in further commendation, "Gosh, it's as fine as the old man's!" Now it was so close that Mr. Jones was enabled to place an expert's eyes upon it. "Why," gasped that specialist, astounded by the revelations of his own keen optic, "blamed if it ain't the old man's car and," he stammered in his excitement, "I--I--It's the old man's daughter--Virginia--in that minstrel parade." In silent wonder the young men watched the passing marvel and, turning, followed it as if expecting further events of an extremely sensational nature.