Burns, who had been walking up and down the room, cast himself into an armchair and stared despairingly at his amanuensis. But she reassured him by saying quietly that it was always difficult to dictate when one was not used to it, and that the letter sounded quite right.
“Well, if you think so, we'll try another paragraph—that's certainly enough about me. Let me see—” He ran his left hand through his hair.
Footsteps sounded upon the porch. Arthur Chester opened the door.
“Oh, excuse me, Red. It's nothing. I was going for a tramp, and I thought—”
“I'm with you.” Burns sprang to his feet looking immensely relieved. “Thank you, Miss Mathewson, we'll finish another time. Or perhaps I can scrawl a finish with my left hand. I'll take the letter. I'll look in at Bob and get my hat in a jiffy, Ches.”
He seized the letter, ran into the inner office, looked in at the dimly-lighted room where the boy was sleeping, took up a soft hat and, out of sight of Miss Mathewson, crammed the typewritten sheet into his pocket in a crumpled condition. Pulling the soft hat well down over his eyes he followed Chester out into the fresh November night, drawing a long breath of satisfaction as the chill wind struck him.
“You were just in time to save me from an awful scrape I'd got myself into,” he remarked as they tramped away.
“I thought you looked hot and unhappy. Were you proposing to Miss Mathewson by letter? It's always best to say those things right out: letters are liable to misinterpretation,” jeered Chester.
“You're right there. I was riding for a fall fast enough when you reined up alongside. But what's a fellow to do when he can't write himself, except in flytracks?”
“I presume the lady would prefer the fly-track to a typewritten document executed by another woman.”