Mr. Renshaw looked at him sharply. Smith"s face was solemn and thoughtful.
"Nothing of the kind," the editor said, after a pause. "I should prefer Mrs. Oakley"s nominee because Mrs. Oakley is a shrewd, practical woman who--er--who--who, in fact--"
"Just so," said Smith, eying him gravely through the monocle.
"Entirely."
The scrutiny irritated Mr. Renshaw.
"Do put that thing away, Mr. Smith," he said.
"That thing?"
"Yes, that ridiculous gla.s.s. Put it away."
"Instantly," said Smith, replacing the monocle in his vest-pocket. "You object to it? Well, well, many people do. We all have these curious likes and dislikes. It is these clashings of personal taste which const.i.tute what we call life. Yes. You were saying?"
Mr. Renshaw wrinkled his forehead.
"I have forgotten what I intended to say," he said querulously. "You have driven it out of my head."
Smith clicked his tongue sympathetically. Mr. Renshaw looked at his watch.
"Dear me," he said, "I must be going. I shall miss my train. But I think I have covered the ground quite thoroughly. You understand everything?"
"Absolutely," said Smith. "I look on myself as some engineer controlling a machine with a light hand on the throttle. Or like some faithful hound whose master--"
"Ah! There is just one thing. Mrs. Julia Burdett Parslow is a little inclined to be unpunctual with her "Moments with Budding Girlhood." If this should happen while I am away, just write her a letter, quite a pleasant letter, you understand, pointing out the necessity of being in good time. She must realize that we are a machine."
"Exactly," murmured Smith.
"The machinery of the paper cannot run smoothly unless contributors are in good time with their copy."
"Precisely," said Smith. "They are the janitors of the literary world.
Let them turn off the steam heat, and where are we? If Mrs. Julia Burdett Parslow is not up to time with the hot air, how shall our "Girlhood" escape being nipped in the bud?"
"And there is just one other thing. I wish you would correct a slight tendency I have noticed lately in Mr. Asher to be just a trifle--well, not precisely risky, but perhaps a shade broad in his humor."
"Young blood!" sighed Smith. "Young blood!"
"Mr. Asher is a very sensible man, and he will understand. Well, that is all, I think. Now, I really must be going. Good-by, Mr. Smith."
"Good-by."
At the door Mr. Renshaw paused with the air of an exile bidding farewell to his native land, sighed and trotted out.
Smith put his feet upon the table, flicked a speck of dust from his coat-sleeve, and resumed his task of reading the proofs of Luella Granville Waterman"s "Moments in the Nursery."
He had not been working long, when Pugsy Maloney, the office boy, entered.
"Say!" said Pugsy.
"Say on, Comrade Maloney."
"Dere"s a loidy out dere wit a letter for Mr. Renshaw."
"Have you acquainted her with the fact that Mr. Renshaw has pa.s.sed to other climes?"
"Huh?"
"Have you, in the course of your conversation with this lady, mentioned that Mr. Renshaw has beaten it?"
"Sure, I did. And she says can she see you?"
Smith removed his feet from the table.
"Certainly," he said. "Who am I that I should deny people these little treats? Ask her to come in, Comrade Maloney."
CHAPTER XIII
BETTY MAKES A FRIEND
Betty had appealed to Master Maloney"s esthetic sense of beauty directly she appeared before him. It was with regret, therefore, rather than with the usual calm triumph of the office boy, that he informed her that the editor was not in. Also, seeing that she was evidently perturbed by the information, he had gone out of his way to suggest that she lay her business, whatever it might be, before Mr. Renshaw"s temporary successor.
Smith received her with Old-World courtesy.
"Will you sit down?" he said. "Not to wait for Comrade Renshaw, of course. He will not be back for another three months. Perhaps I can help you. I am acting editor. The work is not light," he added gratuitously. "Sometimes the cry goes round New York, "Can Smith get through it all? Will his strength support his unquenchable spirit?" But I stagger on. I do not repine. What was it that you wished to see Comrade Renshaw about?"
He swung his monocle lightly by its cord. For the first time since she had entered the office Betty was rather glad that Mr. Renshaw was away.
Conscious of her defects as a stenographer she had been looking forward somewhat apprehensively to the interview with her prospective employer.
But this long, solemn youth put her at her ease. His manner suggested in some indefinable way that the whole thing was a sort of round game.
"I came about the typewriting," she said.
Smith looked at her with interest.
"Are you the nominee?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Do you come from Mrs. Oakley?"
"Yes."