"Say, cancha hurry?" he asked anxiously.
"Plenty time," replied the operator calmly; and so there was, but little Green was enveloped in a haze of zeal that set perspectives all awry.
Presently the little machine on the glass-topped table began to click.
Little Green, standing at the counter, counted the clicks.
Clickety—click—click—clickety—click—clickety.
"You got 'em?" he asked eagerly.
"Yep." Calmly.
Little Green emitted a sigh of relief and proceeded, carefully but hastily, to fill sheet after sheet torn from the block of blue-white paper. He scratched out, wrote in, amplified, condensed. He wrote in many tiny paragraphs; for little Green was wise beyond his years.
And while he wrote, oblivious of the clickety—click—click of the little machine on the table, of the droning tick of the electrically regulated clock, of the rasp of his pencil on the paper, the indolent operator looked up.