“Hello,” I said, placing my lips against the rubber cup. “Hello there, who wants 91162 Nepperhan?”
“Is that you?” came the answering question, and, as my boy had indicated, in a voice whose chief quality was huskiness.
“I guess so,” I replied facetiously;—“It was this morning, but the heat has affected me somewhat, and I don’t feel as much like myself as I might. What can I do for you?”
“Nothing, but you can do a lot for yourself,” was the astonishing answer. “Pretty hot for literary work, isn’t it?” the voice added sympathetically.
“Very,” said I. “Fact is I can’t seem to do anything these days but perspire.”
“That’s what I thought; and when you can’t work ruin stares you in the face, eh? Now I have a manuscript—”
“Oh Lord!” I cried. “Don’t. There are millions in the same fix. Even my cook writes.”
“Don’t know about that,” he returned instantly. “But I do know that there’s millions in my manuscript. And you can have it for the asking. How’s that for an offer?”
“Very kind, thank you,” said I. “What’s the nature of your story?”
“It’s extremely good-natured,” he answered promptly.