m I to do?" asked he seriously. "I could read the manuscript, but
we have no one at Eastborough who knows how to make those pothooks and
scratches that you call 'corrections.'"

"Well, you two young aspirants for literary fame are in a box, are'nt
you? I was thinking about that fifty thousand. Perhaps I'd better go
home with you and get acquainted with the author," said Leopold with a
laugh.

"Well," returned Quincy, "it would be very kind of you in our present
emergency, but, strange as it may seem, I came to see you this afternoon
about securing a literary assistant for Miss Pettengill. She has decided
to write that book."

"Good girl!" cried Leopold, sitting bolt upright upon the lounge. "I
mean, good boy, for it was, no doubt, your acknowledged powers of
argument and gently persuasive ways that have secured this consummation
of my desire. Let me think;" and he scratched his head vigorously. "I
think I have it," said he, finally. "One of our girls down to the office
worked so hard during our late splurge that the doctor told her she must
rest this week. She rooms over on Myrtle Street. I happened to be late
in getting out one day last week, and we walked together up as far as
Chestnut Street. She lives nearly down to the end of Myrtle Street."

"No further explanation or extenuation is necessary," said Quincy. "Is
she pretty?"

"You're right, she is," replied Leopold, "She's both pretty and smart.
She has a beautiful voice and writes a hand that looks like copperplate.
She's a first-class proof reader and a perfect walking dictionary on
spelling, definitions, and dates. They treat her mighty shabby on pay,
though. She's a woman, so they gave her six dollars a week. If she were
a man they'd give her twenty, and think themselves lucky. I'll run over
and see if she is at home. At what time could she go down with you
to-morrow?" he asked.

"I'll come after her at nine o'clock. Tell her Miss Pettengill will give
her eight dollars a week, with board and lodging free."

"All right," cried Leopold, "that's business. While I'm gone just see
how pretty those stories look in cold type. I've been all through them
myself just for practice."

Leopold dashed out of the room and Quincy took up the proofs of the
story, Was It Signed? He became so absorbed in its perusal that Leopold
pulled it out of his hand in order to attract his attention.

"It's all right," he said. "She's delighted at the idea of going. She
thinks the