7Downstairs things were as smooth as owl’s grease. Even Freddie Mollinson’s nose had descended to a comparatively normal level, and he was chatting very amiably with Mrs. Stubblefield. The only thing I could figure was that she’d produced an ancestor that made her a potential Colonial Dame, or that Freddie was scavenging for some titillating table talk, or a tip on the market.
Mr. Stubblefield and Ellery Seymour were discussing the labor situation with Dorothy and Theodore, that being the specter with hairy claws that lives under Theodore’s bed and behind every door he opens. He was getting Mr. Stubblefield’s assurance that matters were under control.
“I have never had any labor trouble, in any plant I own,” Mr. Stubblefield was saying.
“. . . Unquote,” said Milton Minor. He was waiting
