“My young friend, I don’t care to marry, though I appreciate your good wishes. I am an old maid from principle. I am an officer of the Female Suffrage Association.”
“Is it a good payin’ office, ma’am?” asked Mike, visibly impressed.
“No, but it is a position of responsibility. Please tell me your name that I may make a note of it.”
“My name is Michael Flynn.”
“I see. You are of Celtic extraction.”
“I don’t know, ma’am. I never heard that I was. It isn’t anything bad, is it?”
“Not at all. I have some Celtic blood in my own veins. If you ever come to Boston you can inquire for Miss Pauline Peabody.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Mike, who thought the lady rather a “queer lot.”
“Now I must call upon my lawyer, and leave the receipt which I came so near losing.”
“Well, I’m in luck,” thought Mike. “I’ll go home and dress up, and apply for a position as telegraph boy.”