The whole boarding-house was agog at Mitchell's good fortune and Miss Harris smiled on him in a manner reminiscent of the good old ante-bookkeeper—one might say "ante-vellum"—days. She hinted that Mr. Gross's company did not wholly satisfy her soul-hunger, and even confessed that she was lonely; but this was Mitchell's Rock Island evening, and although the frank surrender in Miss Harris's eyes caused him to gasp as if he were slowly settling into a barrel of ice-water, he tore himself from her side.
Louis's batting average would have reached one thousand had it not been for the Monon. Miss Day, the young lady there, had a vocabulary limited to "Hello," "Too high," and "Good-by," and it became particularly galling to learn that the fellow at James & Naughten's was pulling down the business, so Mitchell went to Murphy with a proposition which showed that his mental growth had kept pace with his financial advancement.
"You need a new stenographer," he declared.
"Oh, do I? Why do I need a new stenographer, Mr. Bones?"
"Well, it would be a good investment, and I know a corker."
"Who is she?"
"Miss Day, of the Monon."
"I didn't know you cared for Miss Day."
"I don't. That's the reason I want her to work for you."
Murphy coughed slightly, then he agreed. "You're learning the game.
We'll give her a three-dollar raise, and take her on."