The door opened and an iron-gray head intruded.
"Will I be in the way ?" "Lord, no!" cried Burlingame, throwing down his proofs.

"Come along in, Cutty." The great war correspondent came in and sat down, sighing gratefully.
Cutty was a nickname; he carried and smoked--everywhere they would permit him--the worst-looking and the worst-smelling pipe in Christendom.

You may not realize it, but a nickname is a round-about Anglo-Saxon way of telling a fellow you love him.

He was Cutty, but only among his dear intimates, mind you; to the world at large, to presidents, kings, ambassadors, generals, and capitalists he is known by another name.

You will find it on the roster of the Royal Geographical; on the title page of several unique books on travel, jewels, and drums; in magazines and newspapers; on the membership roll of the Savage in London and the Lambs in New York.