"Yes," said Mr. Carlton, drumming on his desk with his finger tips. "Barry, can you work the typewriter?"
"Yes, sir; and I have a good knowledge of stenography, too."
"Well," was the response, "I suppose it may sound a little sentimental, but I have written the bill to make an appropriation for the new Naval Repair Station at Cleverly, and I want you to run it off on the typewriter. You know very well the feeling I had towards your father, and I would like to be able to say that you wrote the bill for this big improvement in your native town. It's not much, I know, but I thought you might like it."
Barry's eyes were glistening. He spoke eagerly:
"I think it's just fine, Mr. Carlton, and I want to assure you that I appreciate it very much indeed."
Without further ado, Mr. Carlton gave him the manuscript copy of the bill, and Barry, going to a typewriter in a corner of the room, began to transcribe the document. While Barry was at work on the machine Mr. Carlton began the task of going through his mail. It was no easy job, for there were probably a hundred letters on his desk and that merely represented one day's crop. He ran an opener through one envelope after another and remarked casually as he did so:
"I am waiting for my secretary, Barry. I don't know what keeps him so late."
At that moment the door opened and the tall, spare form of Felix Conway, the journalist, entered the room. Mr. Carlton pretended to frown:
"You're late, sir."