Here the gigantic Hiram caught his lower lip sagging and resolutely lifted it to dignity.
"Well, I like your style," Tweet was telling her. "Tell 'em about it, every time—that's the way to get a toehold. But you're not much of a stenog, Lucy—was that you peckin' away in there?"
A shade of pink swept her face.
"I used to operate a machine a little with one finger of each hand," she explained, "but I'm all out of practice. I don't have to use a typewriter on this job though. It's an old one the boss took for a bill."
"Just practicin' up again, eh?"
"Ye-yes," she hesitated. Again her skin grew faintly pink.
"Good business! Go to it! Every little bit helps. Well, congratulations, Lucy. So long! C'm on, Hiram."
"Thanks." Lucy laughed, and went into her little room.
Hiram sighed boyishly, upset the toothpick holder at his elbow, and fled in Mr. Tweet's wake.
"Pretty nifty little kid," Tweet remarked, as Hiram joined him.