"You haven't been asked to leave--as yet," says Old Hickory. "I did have you slated for dismissal a half hour ago, and I may stick to it. Only my private secretary seemed to think I didn't know what I was doing. Perhaps he was right. I'm going to let your case simmer for a day or so. Now clear out, both of you." We slid through the door. "Much obliged for making the try, Torchy," says Brink. "You had your nerve with you, I'll say." "Easiest thing I do, old son," says I. "Besides, his ain't a case of ingrowin' grouch, you know." "I was just getting that hunch myself," says Brink. "Shouldn't wonder but he was quite a decent old boy when you got under the crust. If I was only of some use around the place I'll bet we'd get along fine. As it is----" He spreads out his hands. "Trust Old Hickory Ellins to find out whether you're any use or not," says I. "He don't miss many tricks. If you do get canned, though, you can make up your mind that finance is your short suit." Nearly a week goes by without another word from Mr. Ellins. And every night as Brink streamed out with the advance guard at 5 o'clock he'd stop long enough at my desk to swap a grin with me and whisper: "Well, I won't have to break the news to Dad tonight, anyway." "Nor to the young lady, either," says I. "Oh, I had to spill it to Marjorie, first crack," says he. "She's helping me hold my breath." And then here yesterday mornin', as I'm helping Old Hickory sort the mail, he picks out a letter from our Western manager and slits it open. "Hah!" says he, through his cigar. "I think this solves our problem, Torchy." "Yes, sir?" says I, gawpin'. "Call in that young humorist of yours from the bond room," says he. And I yanks Brink Hollis off the high stool impetuous. "Know anything about industrial welfare work, young man?" demands Old Hickory of him. "I've seen it mentioned in magazine articles," says Brink, "but that's about all. Don't think I ever read one." "So much the better," says Mr. Ellins. "You'll have a chance to start in fresh, with your own ideas." "I--I beg pardon?" says Brink, starin' puzzled. "You're good at play organizing, aren't you," goes on Old Hickory. "Well, here's an opportunity to spread yourself. One of the manufacturing units we control out in Ohio. Three thousand men, in a little one-horse town where there's nothing better to do in their spare time than go to cheap movies and listen to cheaper walking delegates. I guess they need you more than we do in the bond room. Organize 'em as much as you like. Show 'em how to play. Give that He-Crab act if you wish. We'll start you in at a dollar a man. That satisfactory?" I believe Brink tried to say it was, only what he got out was so choky you could hardly tell. But he goes out beamin'. "Well!" says Old Hickory, turnin' to me. "I suppose he'll call that coming safely out of a nose dive, eh?" "Or side-slippin' into success," says I. "I think you've picked another winner, Mr. Ellins."