So when the boss goes on to say how Mr. McCrea is connected with the Washington sleuth bureau I expect I must have gawped at him a bit curious. Some relic of the old office force, was my guess; a hold-over from the times when the S. S. people called it a big day if they could locate a lead nickel fact'ry in Mulberry Street, or drop on a few Chink laundrymen bein' run in from Canada in crates. Maybe he was a thumb-print expert. "Howdy," says I, glancin' up at the clock to see if the prospects was good for makin' the 5:17 out to Harbor Hills. "I am told you know the town rather well," suggests McCrea, sort of mild and apologetic. "Me!" says I. "Oh, I can usually find my way back to Broadway even in foggy weather." He indulges in a flickery little smile. "I also understand," he goes on, "that you have shown yourself to be somewhat quick witted in emergencies." "I must have a good press agent, then," says I, glancin' accusin' at Mr. Ellins. But Old Hickory shakes his head. "I suspect that was my friend, Major Wellby," says he. "Oh!" says I. "The one I rescued the wire spools for? A lucky break, that was." "Mr. McCrea is working on something rather more important," goes on Old Hickory, "and if you can help him in any way I trust you will do it." "Sure," says I. "What's the grand little idea?" He don't seem enthusiastic about openin' up, McCrea, and I don't know as I blame him much. After he's fished a note book out of his inside pocket he stops and looks me over sort of doubtful. "Perhaps I had better say at the start," says he, "that some of our best men have been on this job for several weeks." "Nursin' it along, eh?" says I. That brings a smothered chuckle from Old Hickory. But Mr. McCrea don't seem so tickled over it. In fact, he develops a furrow between the eyes and his next remark ain't quite so soothin'. "No doubt if they could have had the assistance of your rapid fire mentality a little sooner," says he, "it would have been but a matter of a few hours." "There's no telling," says I. "Are you one of the new squad?" Here Old Hickory chokes down another gurgle and breaks in hasty with: "Mr. McCrea, Torchy, is assistant chief of the bureau, you know." "Gosh!" says I, under my breath. "My mistake, sir. And I expect I'd better back out now, while the backin's good." "Wouldn't that be rather hard on us?" asks McCrea, liftin' his eyebrows sarcastic. "Besides, think how disappointed the major will be if we fail to make use of such remarkable ability as he has assured us you possess." It's a kid, all right, even if he does put it so smooth. And by the twinkle in Old Hickory's eye I can see he's enjoyin' it just as much as McCrea. Nothing partial about the boss. His sympathies are always with the good performer. And rather than let this top-liner sleuth put it over me so easy I takes a chance on shootin' a little more bull.