But Mr. Opp had gone back to his letter, and was trying to decide whether it would take one stamp or two. When he felt Nick’s reproachful eye upon him, he put the envelop resolutely in his pocket.
“You’ve already said that work would be resumed at the oil-wells as early as the inclemency of the weather would permit, haven’t you?”
“We’ve had it in every issue since last fall,” said Nick.
“Well, now, let’s see,” said Mr. Opp, diving once more into his reserve box. “Here, take this down: ‘Mr. Jet Connor had his house burnt last month, it being the second fire he has had in ten years. Misfortunes never come single.’”
“All right,” encouraged Nick. “Now can’t you work up that idea about the paper offering a prize?”
Mr. Opp seized his brow firmly between his palms and made an heroic effort [p211] to concentrate his mind upon the business at hand.
“Just wait a minute till I get it arranged. Now write this: ‘“The Opp Eagle” has organized a club called the B.B.B. Club, meaning the Busy Bottle-Breakers Club. A handsome prize of a valued nature will be awarded the boy or girl which breaks the largest number of whisky and beer bottles before the first of May.’ The boats to Coreyville run different on Sunday, don’t they, Nick?”
Nick, who had unquestioningly taken the dictation until he reached his own name, glanced up quickly, then threw down his pen and sighed.
“I’m going up to Mr. Gallop’s,” he said in desperation; “he’s got his mind on things here in town. I’ll see what he can do for me.”
Mr. Opp remorsefully allowed him to depart, and gazed somewhat guiltily at the unaccomplished work before him. But instead of making reparation for recent delinquency, he proceeded to [p212] make even further inroads into the time that belonged to “The Opp Eagle.”