Mr. Jones attempted to frown down unseemly levity regarding serious matters.
Kelly burst into laughter. “Gee, if I wasn’t here to keep you off the old man, he sure would suffer.”
Mr. Jones changed the subject, before such frivolity. “He ought to fire that feller Ike. I’ll bet he’s to blame for the whole thing. The idea of getting a young lady mixed up in a mess like that. He ought to be fired.” Mr. Jones’ soul revolted at the notoriety which had befallen his employer’s daughter. He became thoughtful and then confidential. “That girl is a pippin, Kelly. A regular pippin.”
“You’ve said it.” The bookkeeper’s emphasis spoke volumes.
“Did you ever think about her?”
“Sure,” admitted Kelly with candor, “lots of times.”
“That girl lives a lonesome life in that big house with only the colored servants and her father,” alleged the knowing Mr. Jones. “What fun does she ever have? The old man thinks that she is only a baby. If she has a nurse and is taken out every day for an airing, he imagines nothing else is necessary.”
“You are talking,” quoth Kelly.
“If the old man had any brains–” Mr. Jones noted a correction–“I mean, if he was a cultured and refined man, if he was alive–” Mr. Jones’s manner expressed grave doubt of Obadiah’s vitality–“He would understand that young people must enjoy themselves once in awhile.” Poignant memories of the mill owner’s refusal to grant certain hours off for social purposes embittered the stenographer at this point in his discourse. He paused. “If he had any brains, instead of hanging around and trying to grab every cent that isn’t locked in a burglar proof safe, the old duffer would open up his swell house and spend some coin. He’s got plenty of money. It sticks to him as if his hands were magnets and his fingers suction cups.”
“I say so,” agreed Kelly, with a vigorous nod.