hock for an
hour.

About the second week all hands took a vote that Mildred wa'n't much of
a success as a typewriter artist and that she ought to be fired. The old
man put it up to Mr. Robert, and Mr. Robert shoves it back at him. Then
they both loaded it onto Piddie and cleared out. When they come back
they asks him if he's done it.

"Well," says he, colorin' up, "not exactly."

Come to make him own up, he'd gone at the job so easy and had been so
polite about it that Miss Morgan has time to head him off with a strike
for more pay, and before he can back out he's promised to see what can
be done.

"Couldn't you talk to her, Mr. Ellins?" says he.

"Great Scott, no!" says the boss. "Tell her she's raised, and let it go
at that."

For awhile, though, Mildred cost the firm a lot more money than her
salary, if you reckon up as worth anything the time a lot of two-by-four
ink-slingers spent makin' goo-goo eyes at her. It was a losin' game all
around. Mildred didn't seem to be pinin' for any such honors, and after
they got well acquainted with the fact that she wouldn't stand for lunch
invites, or bids to the theater, and didn't want to be walked home with
by a perfect gent, they let up on that foolishness. It leaves 'em dizzy,
though. There's pinheads on our gen'ral office staff who believes they
never missed breakin' a heart before, and they can't figure out just
what's the matter with the combination.

There was others, too, that couldn't place Mildred, until some one hints
that maybe she's a sure enough swell whose folks had gone broke, and
that she's picked out a typewriter job as a sort of trapdoor that would
let her down out of sight and keep the meal ticket renewed.

After that Mildred is as much of a myst'ry as why folks live in
Brooklyn. We was all wise to the main proposition, though, and it was
funny to hear 'em all sayin' that they'd known it right along. Kind of
set us up some, too, havin' a real ex-ice cutter like her right on the
floor with us. All the other key pounders, that had been givin' her the
stary eye at first, flops around and uses the sugar shaker. There wasn't
anything they wouldn't do for her, and they takes turns holdin' her
jacket, so's to get a peek at the trademark on the inside of the collar.

But Piddie is the most pleased of any. He thinks he's right to home
among carriage folks, and every time she comes near he bows and scrapes
and begins to shoot off the "Aw, I'm suah's" and th