At the opening of Hezekiah’s door, Mr. Jones raised his eyes and, consequently, his head. A wave of pain swept his muscles. He grimaced frightfully. It was upon this distorted countenance that Virginia gazed. The terrifying effect of the face held the girl for a second, but believing it occasioned by grievous illness she hastened to the aid of the stricken one.
Mr. Jones instantly recognized her and the course of destiny was made manifest. Regardless of untoward events, his social merit was appreciated and now one approached seeking counsel or bearing invitations to social festivities. She should not seek in vain. Percy Jones, private secretary and social adviser, was at her service. He sprang from his chair to meet the maid of blood with knightly bow and courtly grace. Alack and aday, that snare of the devil, his waste basket, was misplaced. He tripped against it. To avoid the thing, he raised his foot only to step into the throat-like neck of the monster which instantly clove to his shoe. Simultaneously, a flood of pain protested against his violent movements. In his agony, Mr. Jones lost his balance and fell over his desk. His outstretched hands sought safe anchorage amidst ink stands and mucilage bottles to rest finally in an ever spreading lake of ink.
Virginia halted. Mr. Jones’s face, rent by emotion and struggle, convinced her that he must be in parlous case.
Kelly hurried in at the crash. He observed Mr. Jones’s predicament with great calmness. Nodding to Virginia, he held the basket until the stenographer could extract his foot. Then he turned to the girl and said very soberly, in spite of the glint of amusement in his eye, “Mr. Jones is the victim of an accident and requests permission to retire and cleanse himself.”
As the crestfallen private secretary departed, Kelly and Virginia moved over to a window. The summer day in all of its beauty fought back the ugliness of the tin roofs and chimneys. The bookkeeper viewed the prospect. “By gum,” he asked, “how’d you like to go snowshoeing?” This marvelous witticism was greeted by a burst of laughing applause from its author and the girl, far in excess of its merit.
“Jones doesn’t feel very well today,” Kelly explained to her. “He is the victim of unusual exercise.”
“He doesn’t look like a man who would over-exercise. He does not strike me as a man who is in the best of health,” she responded.
“He isn’t. That’s why he’s so stiff and sore after a few little stunts. He doesn’t get enough fresh air.” Kelly cast a longing glance out of the window and turned to inspect the room. “There isn’t enough fresh air in this place, anyway. Jones has sat in here day after day, sucking on cigarettes and beating on that typewriter, until good health no longer knows him. But,” announced the bookkeeper with great confidence, “I am old Doctor Fix’em. I’m giving him a course in physical training which will fix him. I’m going to make that lad forget his present pains by giving him worse ones.”
“I think it is perfectly fine of you, Mr. Kelly, to help Mr. Jones,” exclaimed Virginia, highly interested in the bookkeeper’s plans for the benefit of the stenographer. “It must make you very happy to be able to do it.”
“Sure,” he agreed. “I laugh myself sick every time I give him a new stunt to do. That fellow has good points. One of these days he’s going to have the smile on some one else. You can’t keep a good man down.”