"I'd like to change off from breathing—if that would accommodate you any," I replied.
He made a "tut-tut" admonition with the tip of his tongue.
"You might not find blowing red-hot coals any pleasanter," he warned, "and angry little girls like you can't hope to go to heaven when they die!"
I rose, with a great effort after professional dignity.
"Mr. Hudson, evidently you have an assignment for me," I said. "Will you be so good as to let me know what it is?"
But even then he looked for a full thirty seconds into the luscious doors of a fruit stand across the street.
"I want you to get—that Consolidated Traction Company story for me," he then declared.
I jumped back as I had never jumped but once in my life before—the time when Aunt Patricia announced that she was going to leave James Christie's love-letters to me.
"You were at that dance last night!" I cried out accusingly, then realizing the absurdity of this I began stammering. "I mean, that I'm a special feature writer!" I kept on before he had had time to send me more than a demon's grin of comprehension.
"You are and this story is devilish special," he returned. "I want you to get it."