She couldn’t do it! It was harder than anything she had ever had in practice! She saw failure confronting her. The sting of tears pricked her eyes, and she pressed her lips tightly together.
Blindly she picked up a stiff bristle brush and began to clean the type of her machine. She slipped in a sheet of paper, and, to distract herself, rattled off briskly some of her school exercises. Those other girls could do it! She saw them glancing at their notes, and busily clicking at their machines. They did not seem to be having difficulty. Miss Flannigan,—that raw-boned Irish girl with no breeding, no education, no brains!—how was it that she managed it?
She frowned savagely and her fingers flew.
“Miss Sturgis.”
Young Mr. Beardsley was smiling at her invitingly. She rose, gathering up her pencils and note-book.
“Sit down, Miss Sturgis. This work may seem a little difficult to you at first but you’ll soon get on to it. Most of these letters are very much alike. There’s no particular accuracy required. The idea is to get in closer touch with these people who have written in or inquired about the books, and we write them personal letters for the effect the direct message....”
He went on explaining, amiably, reassuringly. Jeannette thawed under his pleasant manner; confidence came surging back. She made up her mind she liked this young man; he was considerate, he was kind, he was a gentleman.
“The idea, of course, is always to have your letters intelligible. If you don’t understand what you have written, the person to whom it is addressed, won’t either. I don’t care whether you get my actual words or not. You’re always at liberty to phrase a sentence any way you choose as long as it makes sense.... Now let’s see; we’ll try one. Frank Curry, R.F.D. 1, Topeka, Kansas.... I’ll go slow at first, but if I forget and get going too rapidly, don’t hesitate to stop me.”
Jeannette, with her note-book balanced on her knee, bent to her work. Beardsley spoke slowly and distinctly. After the first moments of agonizing despair, she began to catch her breath and concentrate on the formation of her notes. More than once she was tempted to write a word out long-hand; she hesitated over “historical,” “consummation,” “inaccurate.” She had been told at school never to permit herself to do this. Better to fail at first, they had said, than to grow to depend on slipshod ways.
The ordeal lasted half-an-hour.