three
P.M.
Why , that quiet little Scotchman in the shiny black cutaway coat and the baggy plaid trousers , he knew more about how iron ore gets from the mines to the smelters than I do about puttin ' on my own clothes . And as for the inside hist ` ry of how we got that tonnage charge wished onto us , why , McClave had been called in when the merry little scheme was first plotted out . I made him start at the beginning and explain every item , while we munched fried-egg sandwiches as we went over reports , sorted out old letters , and marked up a perfectly good map of Minnesota . But by three P.M. I had a leather document case stuffed with papers and a cross-index of 'em in my so-called brain . `` When you 're ready , Mr. Ellins , '' says I , standin ' by with my hat in my hand . `` Oh , yes , '' says he , heavin ' himself up reluctant from his desk chair . And , sure enough , there 's a silk-lined limousine and a French chauffeur waitin ' in front of the arcade .