Having forgotten Beth's editorial, Louise did not understand this remark, but she calmly unrolled Skim's manuscript and glanced at the scrawled heading with an amused smile.
"'Suspecting Algernon,'" she read aloud.
"'It were a dark and teedjus night in the erly springtime while the snow were falling soft over the moon litt lanskape.' Why, Skim, how came you to write this?"
"It were the money," he said boldly. "I kin do one a day like this, at thirty dollers apiece, an' never feel the wear an' tear."
Patsy giggled, but Louise stared with a wondering, puzzled expression at the crabbed writing, the misspelled words and dreadful grammar. Indeed, she was a little embarrassed how to handle so delicate a situation.
"I'm afraid we cannot use your story, Mr. Clark," she said gently, and remembering the formula that usually accompanied her own rejected manuscripts she added: "This does not necessarily imply a lack of merit in your contribution, but is due to the fact that it is at present unavailable for our use."
Skim stared at her in utter dismay.
"Ye mean ye won't take it?" he asked with trembling lips.
"We have so much material on hand, just now, that we cannot possibly purchase more," she said firmly, but feeling intensely sorry for the boy. "It may be a good story—"
"It's the bes' story I ever heard of!" declared Skim.