"Or a typewriter, with the loud pedal down and all the stops out?" pursued the facetious Philip.
"Phil," announced Timothy, with a pathetic attempt to look extremely stern and dignified, "let me tell you that I am in no mood for this sort of thing. Dry up, man; dry up! Do you think I could get all I have to say upon this occasion within the limits of an ordinary letter?"
"Under the present postal regulations," explained Philip, "you can send four ounces for a penny. In fact, if you leave the ends open—"
He caught sight of Tim's tragic face, and concluded his entertainment.
"Sorry, old chap!" he remarked, suddenly contrite. "I don't know why one should try to pull a man's leg on these occasions. God knows, the business is serious enough."
"Thanks," said Timothy gratefully. "To tell you the truth, I am feeling pretty bad about it. You don't know what it is to be hard hit by a woman, Phil."
"No. I should have remembered that," said Philip apologetically.
"I know you consider me a young blighter who is always in love with some little piece of goods or other," continued the chastened Timothy; "but this time it is serious. This is the end of all things. Never before have I got sufficiently fond of a girl to ask her to marry me; but I am going to do it to-night."
"I wish you luck," said Philip with feeling.
"Thanks, old friend," responded the boy gratefully. "I'm in a terrible twitter."