“Well, if you can get hold of this Jimmy I’d be very much obliged.”
“What is the nature of your story? Anything like the one this morning?”
“No, this one is a true story. There is mighty little that is true in the scoop of the morning except perhaps the pink parasol and the doughnuts. Would it be against the policy of the paper for you to divulge just what part of the management you are?”
“Ahem! I am part owner and managing editor.”
“Then you’ll do, but please get this Jimmy here as fast as you can so I can tell the tale to both of you at once and save time and breath.”
Jimmy Blaine was forced to uncover his head and listen to his room mate.
“Boss wants you and wants you in a hurry. He says never mind dolling up, but just come along. He’s on the phone now and Miss Celeste says it must be important because he sounds so brisk.” Thus spake Kit Williams, going through the operation on sodden Jimmy known as “cold pigging”, that is, applying a wet sponge to a sleeper’s face.
“Don’t hide! Get up and go to the phone,” insisted Kit as Jimmy snuggled down in the bed clothes and again covered his tousled head.
“Aw gee! Have a heart, cantcher? Don’t go joking me, Kit, that’s a good boy.”
“Well then, lose your job if you want to. What’s it to me? You blooming idiot, didn’t you hear me say that the boss himself is hollerin’ for you. I reckon he’s got a mouthfull to say about that lurid tale you pulled off in this morning’s paper.”
“He saw it before it went in,” growled Jimmy. “If there is any trouble it is up to him. Ain’t he the management?”
“I thought that would wake you up. Now get up and put on your dressing gown--here it is--here are your slippers. Never mind your boudoir cap, just slip along to the phone.”
Jimmy meekly obeyed. There was no use in grumbling when one’s boss was on the line.
“Hello!” he said in a voice as sweet as honey.
“Yes, sir! Yes, sir! Be right down. Don’t let her get away.”
“Breakfast? No sir! What’s breakfast! Never eat on Sunday, that is, breakfast. Be down in a jiffy.”
It was a wide awake Jimmy who, after turning on a cold shower, tore back to his room and began to throw on his clothes like a lightning change vaudeville artist.
“So long, Kit, old fellow. Something big is up but I don’t know what. It’s got something to do with Sherlocko Simpson, I think, but I’ll see you later,” and the youngster was out on the street and running for a trolley in less time than it would have taken the fire department to answer an alarm.