"Yes, sir," says I. "We had to unstick 'em. Pneumatic drills and a steam roller. Very simple." "Great Scott!" says he. "Why didn't that fool captain think of---- But, see here, I don't want 'em here. Now, if we could only get them to Pier 14----" "That would be a long way to roll 'em, sir," says I, "but it could be done. Loadin' 'em on a couple of army trucks would be easier, though. There's a Quartermaster's depot at the foot of Fifty-seventh Street, you know." "So there is," says he. "I'll call them up. Come in, will you, lieutenant and--and join us at tea? You've earned it, I think." Three minutes more and the major announces that the trucks are on the way. "Which means, Ellins," he adds, "that you win your twenty-five. Here you are." "If you don't mind," says Old Hickory, "I'll keep this and pass on my hundred to Torchy here. He might like to entertain his volunteer squad with it." Did I? Say, when I got through showin' that bunch of far West artillery husks how to put in a real pleasant evening along Broadway there wasn't enough change left to buy a sportin' extra. But they'd had chow in the giddiest lobster palace under the white lights, they'd occupied two boxes at the zippiest girl show in town and they was loaded down with cigarettes and chocolate enough to last 'em clear to France. The next mornin', when Old Hickory comes paddin' into the general offices, he stops to pat me friendly on the shoulder. "I think we have succeeded in revising the major's opinion," he remarks, "as to the general utility of bomb-proofers in certain instances." I grins up at him. "Then," says I, "do I get a recommend for active duty within jabbin' distance of the Huns?" "We did consider that," says Old Hickory, "but the decision was just as I suspected from the first. The major says it would be a shame to waste you on anything less than a divisional command, and there aren't enough of those to go around. Chiefly, though, he thinks that anyone who is able to get things done in New York in the wizard-like way that you can should be kept within call of Governor's Island. So I fear, Torchy, that you and I will have to go on serving our country right here." "All right, Mr. Ellins," says I. "I expect you win--as per usual." CHAPTER III TORCHY PULLS THE DEEP STUFF Course, I didn't know what Old Hickory was stackin' me up against when he calls me into the private office and tells me to shake hands with this Mr. McCrea. Kind of a short, stubby party he is, with a grayish mustache and sort of sleepy gray eyes. He's one of these slow motioned, quiet talking ginks, with restful ways, such as would fit easy into a swivel chair and hold down a third vice-president's job for life. Or he might be a champion chess player.