"When I git used to the thing, mar," he said, "I kin do one a day, easy.
I had to be pertickler over this one, it bein' the first."
The widow read the story carefully, guessing at the words that were hopelessly indistinct.
"My! but it's a thriller, Skim," she said with maternal enthusiasm; "but ye don't say why he killed the girl."
"That don't matter, so long's he did it."
"The spellin' don't allus seem quite right," she added doubtfully.
"I guess the spellin's as good as the readin'll be," he retorted, with evident irritation. "I bet I spell as well as any o' the folks thet takes the paper."
"And some words I can't make out."
"Oh, the edytur'll fix that. Say, air ye tryin' to queer my story, mar?
Do ye set up to know more'n I do about story writin'?"
"No," she said; "I ain't talented, Skim, an' you be."
"What I orter hev," he continued, reflectively, "is a typewriter. When I git two er three hunderd ahead perhaps I'll buy one—secondhand."