"Ah, come!" says I. "You don't mean that a real sure-fire like you could be shunted that way? There'd be no harm in your givin' a guess, and if it was right--well, we could run that birthday stake up five more; couldn't we, Mr. Ellins?" Old Hickory nods, and passes me a five-spot prompt. "Well?" says I, wavin' it careless. The kid might have been scared, but he had the kale-itch in his fingers. "All I know," says he, "is that Loppy allus goes into the William Street lobby of the Farmers' National." "Go on!" says I. "That don't come within two numbers of backin' against the Traction Buildin'." "But Loppy allus does," he insists. "There's a door to the right, just beyond the teller's window. But you can't get past the gink in the gray helmet. I tried once." "Secret entrance, eh?" says I. "Sounds convincin'. Anyway, I got your number. So here's your five. Invest it in baby bonds, and don't let on to Mother. You're six to the good, and your job safe. By-by!" "What now?" says Old Hickory. "Shall we try the secret door?" "Not unless we're prepared to do strong arm work on the guard," says I. "No. What we got to frame up now is a good excuse. Let's see, you can't ring in as one of the fam'ly, can you?" "Not as any relative of Gedney's," says Old Hickory. "I'm not built right." "How about his weak points?" says I. "Know of any fads of his?" "Why," says Mr. Ellins, "he is a good deal interested in landscape gardening, and he goes in for fancy poultry, I believe." "That's the line!" says I. "Poultry! Ain't there a store down near Fulton Market where we could buy a sample?" I was in too much of a rush to go into details, and it must have seemed a batty performance to Old Hickory; but off we chases, and when we drove up to the Farmers' National half an hour later I has a wicker cage in each hand and Mr. Ellins has both fists full of poultry literature displayed prominent. Sure enough too, we finds the door beyond the teller's window, also the gink in the gray helmet. He's a husky-built party, with narrow-set, suspicious eyes. "Up to Mr. Nash's," says I casual, makin' a move to walk right past. "Back up!" says he, steppin' square across the way. "What Mr. Nash?" "Whadye mean, what Mr. Nash?" says I. "There ain't clusters of 'em, are there? Mr. Gedney Nash, of course." "Wrong street," says he. "Try around on Broadway." "What a kidder!" says I. "But if you will delay the champion hen expert of the country," and I nods to Old Hickory, "just send word up to Mr. Nash that Mr. Skellings has come with that pair of silver-slashed blue Orpingtons he wanted to see." "Blue which?" says the guard. "Ah, take a look!" says I. "Ain't they some birds? Gold medal winners, both of 'em." I holds open the paper wrappings while he inspects the cacklers. And, believe me, they was the fanciest poultry specimens I'd ever seen! Honest, they looked like they'd been got up for the pullets' annual costume ball.