“I feel sure of it,” said the young girl, with a knowing shake of her head. “But we must do our best to discriminate. I should throw some of these letters into the fire at once, if I were you, Mr. Horn.”
“But they must be answered first!”
“Must they, sir? Every one?” enquired the secretary, arching her dark eye-brows. “Why it will cost you a small fortune in stamps, Mr. Horn!”
“But you forget how rich I am, Miss Owen. And I would rather be cheated a thousand times, than withhold, in a single instance, the help I ought to give.”
“Well, Mr. Horn, I’m your secretary, and must obey your commands, whether I approve of them or not.”
She spoke with a merry trill of laughter; and “Cobbler” Horn, far from being offended, shot back upon her a beaming smile.
They took the letters as they came. Concerning some of the applications, “Cobbler” Horn felt quite able to decide himself. Appeals from duly-accredited philanthropic institutions received from him a liberal response, and so large were some of the amounts that the young secretary felt constrained to remonstrate.
“You forget,” he replied, “how much money I’ve got.”
“But—excuse me, sir—you seem resolved to give it all away!”
“Yes, almost,” was the calm reply.