"No," she answered, composedly rattling off a few test lines—"Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party." It was true enough. She was slow.
"How much work do you get?"
"Four ten-cent letters and a short brief this morning. That's all to-day."
"What's the idea now—wait?" asked Georgia, taking off her coat and leaning against the solitary desk.
"Yep—like young lawyers."
"No use our both waiting with one machine between us. I tell you what—you go over to the Standard Company, on Wabash Avenue, and order a number four sent here, then traipse around to some other public offices—you can find plenty in the back of the telephone book—and see if they won't sublet us some of their work at half rates. I'll hold down the place, and get the hang of this keyboard while you're gone."
L. Frankland saluted. "Aye, aye, ma'am," said she. "I likewise do now promote you to be captain of this brig."
When she returned she brought a sheaf, the manuscript of a drama.
Georgia knocked it out in twenty-four hours, in triplicate, and took it back to the firm of origin in the Opera House Block. "Z. & Z.—Theatrical Typists" was the sign on the door.
The room was small, and thick with smoke. There must have been a dozen men in it, all important-looking. Mr. Zingmeister, the senior partner, a fat young Hebrew, received Georgia's work.