“Are you the forest supervisor, sir?” Somehow the habitual twinkle in the stranger’s eyes seemed to match a certain rollicky Irish tone of his voice, as if he had a joke on the tip of his tongue and needed scant encouragement to tell it.
“I am. What can I do for you?”
“You might read these letters of Recommendation, sir, and if they suit you, then you might give me a job.” He grinned as he handed Murray two letters and stepped back.
The first letter came from the national forest service and was signed by the chief. It stated that the bearer, Patrick R. O’Neill, had at his own request been transferred from Arizona to Montana, and was competent to perform all duties pertaining to the forest service. The other was from the supervisor of the Black Mesa National Forest, Arizona, and spoke in highest terms of the qualifications of this same Patrick O’Neill. Murray read both with care before he so much as glanced again at the man. When he did, he saw Patrick O’Neill still standing at attention, still with the twinkle in his eyes.
“Huh! Seen army service, too, haven’t you?”
“Yes, sir. Two years and a half at West Point.”
“Holy mackerel! Two years and a half—you learned how to make maps, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Lock the door, Christine! Quick, before he gets away! Damn it, man, you’re needed in this office! Sit down and let’s talk. Christine, can’t you tell a joke unless it’s labeled? Unlock that door!”
“I was taught obedience to my employer by the business college. You say I am to lock the door and I lock it. I should not read your mind or some day I lose my job.” Christine unlocked the door which she had obediently locked, sat down at her desk and began wiping the speckless old typewriter before her, while she still patiently waited for the letter her boss was going to write.