"The very thing! I advertised in this morning's Times. You saw the

advertisement?"

"You are not telling the truth," she said, looking at him with eyes

that danced. "I read all the advertisement columns in The Times this

morning, and I am quite sure that you did not advertise."

"I meant to advertise," said Bones gently. "I had the idea last night;

that's the very piece of paper I was writing the advertisement on."

He pointed to a sheet upon the pad.

"A secretary? The very thing! Let me think."

He supported his chin upon one hand, his elbow upon another.

"You will want paper, pens, and ink--we have all those," he said.

"There is a large supply in that cupboard. Also india-rubber. I am

not sure if we have any india-rubber, but that can be procured. And a

ruler," he said, "for drawing straight lines and all that sort of

thing."

"And a typewriter?" she suggested.

Bones smacked his forehead with unnecessary violence.

"A typewriter! I knew this office wanted something. I said to Ali

yesterday: 'You silly old ass----'"

"Oh, you have a girl?" she said disappointedly.

"Ali," said Bones, "is the name of a native man person who is devoted

to me, body and soul. He has been, so to speak, in the family for

years," he explained.

"Oh, it's a man," she said.

Bones nodded.

"Ali. Spelt A-l-y; it's Arabic."

"A native?"

Bones nodded.

"Of course he will not be in your way," ha hastened to explain. "He is

in Bournemouth just now. He had sniffles." he explained rapidly, "and

then he used to go to sleep, and snore. I hate people who snore, don't

you?"

She laughed again. This was the most amazing of all possible employers.

"Of course," Bones went on, "I snore a bit myself. All thinkers do--I

mean all brainy people. Not being a jolly old snorer yourself----"

"Thank you," said the girl.

Other tenants or the satellites of other tenants who occupied the

palatial buildings wherein the office of Bones was situated saw, some

few minutes later, a bare-headed young man dashing down the stairs

three at a time; met him, half an hour later, staggering up those same

stairs handicapped by a fifty-pound typewriter in one hand, and a chair

in the style of the late Louis Quinze in the other, and wondered at the

urgency of his movements.

"I want to tell you," said the girl, "that I know very little about

shorthand."

"Shorthand is quite unnecessary, my dear--my jolly old stenographer,"

said Bones firmly. "I object to shorthand on principle, and I shall

always object to it. If people," he went on, "were intended to write

shorthand, they would have been born without the alphabet. Another

thing----"

"One moment, Mr. Tibbetts," she said. "I don't know a great deal about

typewriting, either."




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