o cook up some tabulated stuff for the
Semiannual me and Ruby had a three-hour session together, me readin' off
long strings of numbers, and her thumpin' 'em out on the keys. We got
along fine too, and when I says as much at the finish she jars me almost
speechless by shootin' over a shy, grateful look and smilin' coy.

From then on it was almost a case of friendly relations between me and
Ruby, conducted on the basis of about two smiles a day. Poor thing! I
expect them was about the only friendly motions she went through durin'
business hours; for she didn't seem to mix at all with the other lady
typists, and as for the young sports around the shop--well, to them Ruby
was a standin' joke.

And you could hardly blame 'em. Them back-number costumes of hers looked
odd enough mixed in with all the harem effects and wired-neck ruffs that
the others wore down to work. But when it come to doin' her hair Ruby
was in a class by herself. No spit curls or French rolls for her! She
sticks to the plain double braid, wound around her head smooth and
slick, like the stuff they wrap Chianti bottles in, and with her long
soup-viaduct it gives her sort of a top-heavy look. Sort of dull,
ginger-colored hair it is too. Besides that she's a tall,
shingle-chested female, well along in the twenties, I should judge, and
with all the earmarks of bein' an old maid.

So shock No. 2 is handed me when I discovers how the high-shouldered
young husk with the wide-set blue eyes, that I'd seen hangin' round the
Arcade on and off, was really waitin' for Ruby. Uh-huh! I stood and
watched 'em sidle up to each other and go driftin' out into Broadway
hand in hand. A swell pair they'd make for a Rube vaudeville act!
Honest, with a few make-up touches, they could have walked right on and
had the gallery with 'em!

Believe me, I couldn't miss a chance to josh Ruby some on that. I shoves
it at her next day when I comes back early from lunch and finds her
brushin' her sandwich crumbs into the waste basket.

"Now don't spring any musty first-cousin gag on me," says I; "for it
don't go with the fond, palm-pressin' act. Steady comp'ny, ain't he?"

Which was where you'd expect her to turn pink in the ears and let loose
a giggle. But not Ruby. She's a solemn, serious-minded party, Ruby is.
"Do you mean Mr. Lindholm?" says she.

"Heavings!" says I. "Do you have relays of 'em? I'm referrin' to the
stocky-built young Romeo that picked you up at the door last nig