“And no one would think you had. Don’t worry about that. Now I must get back to town.”
“Mind you’re to make the first speech to-morrow at the opening of this place,” said Berty.
“Yes, I remember.”
“And,” she went on, hesitatingly, “don’t you think you’d better commit your speech to paper? Then you’d know when to stop.”
“No, I wouldn’t,” he said, hopelessly. “Something would prompt me to make a few oral remarks after I’d laid down the paper.”
“I should like you to make a good speech, because Miss Everest will be here.”
“Will she? Then I must try to fix myself. How shall I do it?”
“I might have a pile of boards arranged at the back of the park,” said Berty, “and as soon as you laid down the paper, I’d give a signal to a boy to topple them over. In the crash you could sit down.”
“No, I wouldn’t,” he said, drearily. “I’d wait till the fuss was over, then I’d go on.”
“And that wouldn’t be a good plan, either,” said Berty, “because some one might get hurt. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You give me a sheet of paper just the size of that on which you write your speech. Mind, now, and write it. Don’t commit it. And don’t look at this last sheet till you stand on the platform and your speech is finished.”