Time went faster than he dreamed it could. Willie was busy every moment. Before he knew it, the morning was almost past. Willie thought of the spittoons. He leaped to his feet and darted into the Special Agent’s office. From either side of the big mahogany desk he lifted a shining brass cuspidor and started for the door. “Hold on there,” roared the Chief. “What in blazes are you doing with those spittoons? Don’t get so gay. There’ll be plenty of jobs worth doing, without wasting your time on cuspidors. What did you mean to do with them, anyway?” Willie’s suspicions were becoming certainties, as he answered, “Clean them, of course. Isn’t that part of my work?” “Certainly not,” exploded the Special Agent. “That’s work for the scrub women. What in blazes do you think I would do while you were off somewhere cleaning spittoons, and half a hundred people were waiting outside my office? Where did you intend to wash those things, anyway?” Willie stepped close to his Chief’s desk, and very quietly and distinctly said, “In the washroom—just where I was instructed to clean them.” “Instructed!” roared the Special Agent. “Who instructed you to clean spittoons?” “I was told that was part of my work,” said Willie, dodging the question. “I thought I had to clean them twice a day.” Despite his anger, the Special Agent burst into laughter. “I see somebody has been stringing you,” he said. “And I see you don’t exactly like to be a telltale. All right. You needn’t name anybody. I am a good guesser. But tell me this. Why did you bring that man into my office without first announcing him? Did you understand that that also was a part of your duties?” “I thought so,” said Willie. “And did you understand that you were to dump the mail on my desk the way you did?” Willie grinned. “I understood that it was important that it be done in just that way,” he said. “Well, I’ll be hanged!” exploded the Chief. “This is really funny.” And all his bottled-up wrath effervesced in laughter. “See here,” he went on. “I guess the safest plan will be for you to inquire how to do things, each time you tackle a new task. Then you’ll get things straight.” “I’ll do it, sir,” said Willie. “And I’ll ask one question right away. I didn’t have time to get the pens ready for your desk. How many do you want, and how do you want them?” “Pens!” cried the Special Agent. “That’s one thing I can’t abide on my desk. I use a fountain pen. I want my desk just as it is now—as clear as possible. I’ll attend to my mail, sort it, answer it, and get it out of the way. I want my desk clear—always.” “Thank you,” said Willie, grinning. “I think I understand a lot of things.” The Special Agent grinned back. “I do, too,” he smiled. “Now go back to your desk and—do the best you can under the circumstances.”