I was standin' by, listenin' to the general grouch develop, and wonderin' how long before they'd organize a lynchin' committee, when I hears the brass gate slam, and into the private office breezes Mr. Robert himself, lookin' fresh and chirky, his hat tilted well back, and swingin' a bamboo walkin'-stick. When he sees me, he springs a wide grin and grabs me by the shoulders. "Torchy, you sunny-haired emblem of good luck!" he sings out. "What do you think! I've--got--her!" "Eh!" says I. "The _Balboa_?" "The _Balboa_ be hanged!" says he. "No, no! Elsa--Miss Hampton, you know! She's mine, Torchy; she's mine!" "S-s-s-sh!" says I, noddin' towards the other room. "Forget her a minute and brace yourself for a run-in with that gang of rag-chewers in there." Does he? Say, without even stoppin' to size 'em up, he prances right in amongst 'em, free and careless. "Why, hello, Ryder!" says he, handin' out a brisk shoulder-pat. "Ah, Mr. Larkin! Mr. Busbee! Well, well! You too, Hyde? Hail, all of you, and the top of the morning! Gentlemen," he goes on, shakin' hands right and left without noticin' how reluctant some of the palms came out, "I--er--I have a little announcement to make." "Humph!" snorts old Busbee. "Have you?" "Yes," says Mr. Robert, smilin' mushy. "I--er--the fact is, I am going to be married." "The bonehead!" I whispers husky. Old Lawson T. Ryder, the one with the bushy white eyebrows and the heavy dewlaps, he puffs out his cheeks and works that under jaw of his menacin'. "Really!" says he. "But what about the _Balboa_? Eh?" "Oh!" says Mr. Robert casual. "The _Balboa_? Yes, yes! Didn't I tell someone to attend to that? A charter, wasn't it? Torchy, were you----" I shakes my head. "Perhaps it was Mr. Piddie, then," says he. "Anyway, I thought I asked----" "Here's Piddie now, sir," says I. "Looks like he'd been after something." He's a wreck, that's all. His derby is caved in, his black cutaway all smooched with lime or something, and one eye is tinted up lovely. In his right fist, though, he has a long yellow envelope. "The charter!" he gasps out dramatic. "_Balboa!_" And, by piecin' out more jerky bulletins, it's clear that Piddie has pulled off the prize stunt of his whole career. He'd gone out after that charter at lunchtime the day before, been stalled off by office clerks probably subsidized by the opposition, spent the night hangin' around the water-front, and got mixed up with a dock gang; but, by bein' on hand early, he'd caught one of the shippin' firm and closed the option barely two hours before it lapsed. And as he sinks limp into a chair he glances appealin' at Mr. Robert, no doubt expectin' to be decorated on the spot. "By George!" says Mr. Robert. "Good work! But you haven't heard of my great luck meantime. Listen, Piddie. I am to be married!" I thought Piddie would croak. "Think of that, gentlemen," cuts in old Busbee sarcastic. "He is to be married!"