There was no denying that he was good company and always interesting. In an apparently accidental way, Braxton, who had been scribbling aimlessly upon some pieces of paper that lay on the table, led the talk toward the subject of handwriting.
“It’s a gift to write a good hand,” he remarked. “It’s got to be born in you. Some men can do it naturally, others can’t. I’m one of the fellows that can’t. I’ll bet Horace Greeley himself never wrote a worse hand than I do.”
“I’ve heard that he was a weird writer,” smiled Joe.
“The worst ever,” rejoined Braxton. “I’ve heard that he wrote to his foreman once, ordering him to discharge a printer who had set up a bad copy. The printer hated to lose his job and an idea struck him. He got hold of the letter discharging him and took it to Greeley, who didn’t know him by sight, and told him it was a letter of recommendation from his last employer. Greeley tried to read it, but couldn’t, so he said he guessed it was all right and told him he was engaged.” 193
Joe laughed, and Braxton tossed over to him a sheet of paper on which he had written his name.
“Greeley has nothing on me,” he said. “If you didn’t know my name was Braxton, I’ll bet you wouldn’t recognize these hen tracks.”
“You’re right,” said Joe. “I’m no dabster myself at writing and I can sympathize with you.”
“It couldn’t be as bad as this,” challenged Braxton, slipping a pen over to Joe, together with a fresh piece of paper.
“No,” said Joe, as he took up the pen, “I guess at least you could make mine out.”
He scribbled his name and Braxton picked up the paper with a laugh.