Bones in London. Wallace Edgar

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СКАЧАТЬ the amount I get through in this sanctum – that'sLatin for 'private office' – and the wretched old place is nevertidy – never! I am seriously thinking" – he frowned – "yes, I am veryseriously thinking of sacking the lady who does the dusting. Why, doyou know, this morning – "

      Her eyes were smiling now, and she was to Bones's unsophisticated eyes, and, indeed, to eyes sophisticated, superhumanly lovely.

      "I haven't come for a dusting job," she laughed.

      "Of course you haven't," said Bones in a panic. "My dear old lady – my precious – my young person, I should have said – of course you haven't!

      You've come for a job – you've come to work! Well, you shall have it!

      Start right away!"

      She stared.

      "What shall I do?" she asked.

      "What would I like you to do?" said Bones slowly. "What aboutscheming, getting out ideas, using brains, initiative, bright – " Hetrailed off feebly as she shook her head.

      "Do you want a secretary?" she asked, and Bones's enthusiasm rose tothe squeaking point.

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

      "You are not telling the truth," she said, looking at him with eyesthat danced. "I read all the advertisement columns in The Times thismorning, 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 amnot sure if we have any india-rubber, but that can be procured. And aruler," he said, "for drawing straight lines and all that sort ofthing."

      "And a typewriter?" she suggested.

      Bones smacked his forehead with unnecessary violence.

      "A typewriter! I knew this office wanted something. I said to Aliyesterday: '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 devotedto me, body and soul. He has been, so to speak, in the family foryears," 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 isin Bournemouth just now. He had sniffles." he explained rapidly, "andthen he used to go to sleep, and snore. I hate people who snore, don'tyou?"

      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 – Imean 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 thepalatial buildings wherein the office of Bones was situated saw, somefew minutes later, a bare-headed young man dashing down the stairsthree at a time; met him, half an hour later, staggering up those samestairs handicapped by a fifty-pound typewriter in one hand, and a chairin the style of the late Louis Quinze in the other, and wondered at theurgency of his movements.

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

      "Shorthand is quite unnecessary, my dear – my jolly old stenographer,"said Bones firmly. "I object to shorthand on principle, and I shallalways object to it. If people," he went on, "were intended to writeshorthand, they would have been born without the alphabet. Anotherthing – "

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

      Bones beamed.

      "There I can help you," he said. "Of course it isn't necessary thatyou should know anything about typewriting. But I can give you a fewhints," he said. "This thing, when you jiggle it up and down, makesthe thingummy-bob run along. Every time you hit one of theseletters – I'll show you… Now, suppose I am writing 'Dear Sir,' Istart with a 'D.' Now, where's that jolly old 'D'?" He scowled at thekeyboard, shook his head, and shrugged his shoulders. "I thought so,"he said; "there ain't a 'D.' I had an idea that that wicked old – "

      "Here's the 'D,'" she pointed out.

      Bones spent a strenuous but wholly delightful morning and afternoon.

      He was half-way home to his chambers in Curzon Street before he realized that he had not fixed the rather important question of salary.

      He looked forward to another pleasant morning making good that lapse.

      It was his habit to remain late at his office at least three nights aweek, for Bones was absorbed in his new career.

      "Schemes Ltd." was no meaningless title. Bones had schemes whichembraced every field of industrial, philanthropic, and social activity.He had schemes for building houses, and schemes for planting rose treesalong all the railway tracks. He had schemes for building motor-cars, for founding labour colonies, for harnessing the rise and fall of thetides, he had a scheme for building a theatre where the audience sat ona huge turn-table, and, at the close of one act, could be twistedround, with no inconvenience to themselves, to face a stage which hasbeen set behind them. Piqued by a certain strike which had caused hima great deal of inconvenience, he was engaged one night working out ascheme for the provision of municipal taxicabs, and he was so absorbedin his wholly erroneous calculations that for some time he did not hearthe angry voices raised outside the door of his private office.

      Perhaps it was that that portion of his mind which had been left freeto receive impressions was wholly occupied with a scheme – whichappeared in no books or records – for raising the wages of his newsecretary.

      But presently the noise penetrated even to him, and he looked up with atouch of annoyance.

      "At this hour of the night! … Goodness gracious … respectablebuilding!"

      His disjointed comments were interrupted by the sound of a scuffle, anoath, a crash against his door and a groan, and Bones sprang to thedoor and threw it open.

      As he did so a man who was leaning against it fell in.

      "Shut the door, quick!" he gasped, and Bones obeyed.

      The visitor who had so rudely irrupted himself was a man of middle age, wearing a coarse pea-jacket and blue jersey of a seaman, his peaked hatcovered with dust, as Bones perceived later, when the sound ofscurrying footsteps had died away.

      The man was gripping his left arm as if in pain, and a thin trickle ofred was running down the back of his big hand.

      "Sit СКАЧАТЬ