I don't know that I ever saw Old Hickory
actually look sheepish before. As for Auntie, she's almost ready to
blow a fuse.
"Well," says she explosive. "I like that! Jokes, are we?"
"So it appears," says Mr. Ellins. "At any rate, we seem to be in no
danger from a mutinous crew. Our little enterprise merely amuses them."
"Pooh!" says Auntie. "Ignorant sailors! What do they know about--"
But just then there booms in through the portholes this hearty hail
from outside:
"Ahoy the _Agnes_! Who's aboard there? Wha-a-a-at! Mr. Ellins, of
New York. Well, well! Hey, you! Fend off there. I'm coming in."
"Megrue!" says Old Hickory. "If it isn't I'll--"
It was, all right: Bernard J. Megrue, one of our biggest Western
customers, president of a couple of railroads, and director in a lot of
companies that's more or less close to the Corrugated Trust. He's a
husk, Barney Megrue is--big and breezy, with crisp iron-gray hair,
lively black eyes, and all the gentle ways of a section boss.
He's got up in a complete khaki rig, includin' shirt and hat to match,
and below the eyebrows he has a complexion like a mahogany sideboard.
It don't take him long to make himself right to home among us.
"Well, well!" says he, workin' a forced draught on one of Old Hickory's
choice cassadoras.
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