"Percival Lafollette," repeated Waseche, gravely rolling the name upon his tongue. "'Was you in the original Floradora Sextette?"
"Why, no, sir——"
"No what?"
"No—no—" stammered Percival, in confusion.
"That's it—no!—just plain no! When you've got that said, you're through with that there partic'lar train of thought."
"No—they were girls—the Floradora Sextette."
"So they was," agreed Waseche, solemnly. "Did you bring the mail over?"
"Yes, s—yes, here it is." He placed a handful of letters on the pine table that served as Waseche's desk.
"All right, just take off your cloak an' bonnet, an' pry the lid off that there infernal machine, an' we'll git to work."
A few minutes later the new stenographer stood at attention, notebook in hand. Waseche Bill, who had been watching him closely, noted that he shivered slightly, as he removed his overcoat, and that he coughed violently into a handkerchief. Glancing into the pale face, he asked abruptly: "Sick—lunger?"