And off he goes into his own room. I don't know what he thought he was goin' to do there. Just habit, I expect. For we've been gettin' along without Old Hickory for quite some time now, while he's been away. First off he tried to keep in touch with things by night letters, then he had a weekly report sent him; but gradually he lost the run of the new deals, and for the last month or so he'd quit firin' over any orders at all. Through the open door I could see him sittin' at his big, flat-topped mahogany desk, starin' around sort of aimless. Then he pulls out a drawer and shuffles over some old papers that had been there ever since he left. Next he picks up a pen and starts to make some notes. "Boy!" he sings out. "Ink!" Course I could have pushed the buzzer and had Vincent do it; but seein' how nobody had put him wise to the change, I didn't feel like announcin' it myself. So I fills the inkwell, chases up a waste basket for him, and turns on the electric fan. "Now bring the mail!" says he snappy. He was back to; so it was safe to smile. You see, I'd attended to all the mornin' deliveries, sorted out what I knew had to be held over for Mr. Robert, opened what was doubtful, and sent off a few answers accordin' to orders. But, after all, he was the big boss. He had a right to go through the motions if he wanted to. So I lugs in the mail, dumps it in the tray, and leaves him with it. Must have been half an hour later, and I was back at my own desk doping out a schedule I'd promised to fix up for Mr. Robert, when I glances up to find Old Hickory wanderin' around the room absent-minded. He's starin' hard at a letter he holds in one paw. All of a sudden he discovers me at the roll-top. For a second he scowls at me from under the bushy eyebrows, and then comes the explosion. "Boy!" he sings out. "What the hyphenated maledictions are you doing there?" Well, I broke it to him as gentle as I could. "Promoted, eh?" he snorts. "To what?" And I explains how I'm private secretary to the president of the Mutual Funding Company. "Never heard of such an organization," says he. "What is it, anyway?" "Dummy concern mostly," says I, "faked up to stall off the I. C. C." "Eh?" he gawps. "Interstate Commerce Commission," says I. "We beat 'em to it, you know, by dissolvin'--on paper. Had to have somebody to use the rubber stamp; so they picked me off the gate." "Humph!" he grunts. "So you're no longer an office boy, eh? But I had you hopping around like one. How was that?" "Guess I got a hop or two left in me," says I, "specially for you, Mr. Ellins." "Hah!" says he. "Also more or less blarney left on the tongue. Well, young man, we'll see. As office boy you had your good points, I remember; but as----" Then he breaks off and repeats, "We'll see, Son." And he goes to studyin' the letter once more.