"A mere trifle, madam, when we consider that it may be the means of saving this little fellow's life!"
He laid a blank on the table and produced a fountain pen.
"But the expense?" insisted Mrs. Westfall as she saw him filling out the blank.
"Not enough for a person in your circumstances to consider— Sign there."
She took the pen and poised it uncertainly over the dotted line. "Before I sign this I ought to know—"
"A mere trifle—sign there—an inconsequential nothing—on the dotted line, please—two dollars—"
She signed her name.
"Two dollars a lesson, with our iron-bound guarantee. Thank you, madam! Many thanks! Keep the duplicate for your own reference. And I am leaving you a complete catalogue of our courses. You may be interested in something else later on. And now I will wish you—"
And thus it happened that Biscuit Westfall learned to swim.
Undoubtedly the proudest moment of his whole life was the one when he received his diploma from the Inter-State Correspondence School. To the unprejudiced eye this diploma looked more like the document that is drawn forth from the spy's boot in the war melodrama, than the sheepskin of a scholastic institution. It was decorated with stars and garters, wafers and lozenges; but to Biscuit's unsophisticated gaze it was quite the most important document since the Declaration of Independence.