Now if it had been two common, everyday parties, debatin' which owned a yellow dog, they'd gone hoarse over it; but not these two plutes. Gedney Nash asks Old Hickory only three more questions before he turns to the wicker cages and begins admirin' the fancy poultry. "Excellent specimens, excellent!" says he. "And in the pink of condition too. I have a few Orpingtons on my place; but--oh, by the way, Ellins, are these really intended for me?" "With Torchy's compliments," says Old Hickory. "By Jove!" says Gedney. "I--I'm greatly obliged--truly, I am. What plumage! What hackles! And--er--just leave that terminal lease, will you? I'll have it renewed and sent up. Would you mind too if I sent you out by the Broadway entrance?" I didn't mind, for one, and I guess the boss didn't; for the last office we passes through was where the gray-haired gent camped watchful behind the brass gratin'. "Well, wouldn't that crimp you?" I remarks, givin' him the passin' grin. "Our old friend Ananias, ain't it?" And he never bats an eyelash. But Gedney wa'n't in that class. Before closin' time up comes a secretary with the lease all signed. I was in the boss's room when it's delivered. "Gee, Mr. Ellins!" says I. "You don't need any more mud baths, I guess." All the rise that gets out of him is a flicker in the mouth corners. "Young man," says he, "whose idea was it, taking you off the gate?" "Mr. Robert's," says I. "I am glad to learn," says he, "that Robert had occasional lapses into sanity while I was away. What about your salary? Any ambitions in that direction?" "I only want what I'm worth," says I. "Oh, be reasonable, Son," says he. "We must save something for the stockholders, you know. Suppose we double what you're getting now? Will that do?" And the grin I carries out is that broad I has to go sideways through the door. CHAPTER V SHOWING GILKEY THE WAY I got to say this about Son-in-Law Ferdie: He's a help! Not constant, you know; for there's times when it seems like his whole scheme of usefulness was in providin' something to hang a pair of shell-rimmed glasses on, and givin' Marjorie Ellins the right to change her name. But outside of that, and furnishin' a comic relief to the rest of the fam'ly, blamed if he don't come in real handy now and then. Last Friday was a week, for a sample. I meets up with him as he's driftin' aimless through the arcade, sort of caromin' round and round, bein' bumped by the elevator rushers and watched suspicious by the floor detective. "What ho, Ferdie!" I sings out, grabbin' him by the elbow and swingin' him out of the line of traffic. "This ain't no place to practice the maxixe." "I--I beg--oh, it's you, Torchy, is it?" says he, sighin' relieved. "Where do I go to send a telegram?"