“The No. 9 secretary comes up in his shirt sleeves, chewin’ blot-sheet and dichting the ink aff his elbows.
“‘Whit are ye thrang at the noo?’ asks Mr Carnegie as nice as onything to him, though he’s only a kind o’ a workin’ man.
“‘Sendin’ aff the week’s orders for new kirk organs,’ says the No. 9 secretary, ‘and it’ll tak’ us till Wednesday.’
“‘Where’s a’ the rest o’ my secretaries?’ asks Mr Carnegie.
“‘Half o’ them’s makin’ oot cheques for new leebraries up and doon the country, and the ither halfs oot in the back-coort burning letters frae weedows wi’ nineteen weans, nane o’ them daein’ for themsel’s, and frae men that were dacent and steady a’ their days, but had awfu’ bad luck.’
“‘If it gangs on like this we’ll hae to put ye on the night-shift,’ says Mr Carnegie. ‘It’s comin’ to’t when I hae to write my ain letters. I’ll be expected to write my ain books next. But I’ll no’ dae onything o’ the kind. Jist you telegraph to India, or Africa, or Japan, or wherever the hairy-heided lions comes frae, and tell them to send wee Maggie ane o’ the very best at 50 per cent aff for cash.’
“Early ae mornin’ some weeks efter that, when the steam-hooter for wakenin’ the secretaries starts howlin’ at five o’clock, Mr Carnegie comes doon stair and sees the hairy-heided lion in a crate bein’ pit aff a lorry. He has it wheeled into the wee lassie when she’s at her breakfast.
“‘Let it oot,’ she says; ‘I want to play wi’t.’
“‘Ye wee fuiter!’ he says, lauchin’ like onything, ‘ye canna get playin’ wi’t oot o’ the cage, but ye’ll can get feedin’t wi’ sultana-cake.’
“But that disna suit wee Maggie, and she jist tells him to send it awa’ to the Bronx Zoo in New York.