“Yes, thanks, only it—it wouldn’t be much fun for you.”
“How do you know that? You don’t know me well enough yet to say what my sort of fun is, Craig.” He smiled quizzically. “As a matter of fact, I’d like it. I’ll see you to-morrow. By the way, I live at the Amesville Club. Come around some evening and chin. There’s something that passed between you and John York that you haven’t told me about yet. Good-bye.”
Sam shook hands again and took his leave, descending by the stairs to the sixth floor and making his way to a door whose ground-glass bore the legend, “Miss Craig, Stenographer,” and from behind which came the busy clatter of a typewriter. Nell Craig was hard at work when Sam entered, and she only nodded and smiled until she had finished the sheet she was on and had pulled it from the carriage. Then she laid it aside and turned to view Sam questioningly. She was a rather pretty girl of eighteen, with light hair and more delicate features than her brother’s. She looked alert and capable, and quite businesslike in the plain black gown she wore.
“I saw him,” said Sam. “He seems rather nice.”
“Of course he does. I told you you’d like him,” replied Nell. “He’s the nicest customer I have.”
“He said you were a smart girl and a good stenographer,” answered Sam. “Looks like a case of what-do-you-call-it—mutual admiration.”
Nell laughed. “It’s more fun working for men you like, Sam. Some of them are rather gruff and horrid. What did he say to you?”
“Nothing much. Said he was glad to know me.”
“But didn’t you talk at all?”