“Enclose stamps, do they?”
“Most of them, sir; those that did not, I threw in the waste basket.”
“Quite right. And as to the autographs you might write them this afternoon, if you have time.”
“I have already done so, sir. I flatter myself that even your most intimate friend could not tell my version of your autograph from your own.”
As he said this, the young man shoved towards the author a letter which he had written, and Mr. Ringamy looked at it critically.
“Very good, Scriver, very good indeed. In fact, if I were put in the witness-box I am not sure that I would be able to swear that this was not my signature. What’s this you have said in the body of the letter about sentiment? Not making me write anything sentimental, I hope. Be careful, my boy, I don’t want the newspapers to get hold of anything that they could turn into ridicule. They are too apt to do that sort of thing if they get half a chance.”
“Oh, I think you will find that all right,” said the young man; “still I thought it best to submit it to you before sending it off. You see the lady who writes has been getting up a ‘Ringamy Club’ in Kalamazoo, and she asks you to give her an autographic sentiment which they will cherish as the motto of the club. So I wrote the sentence, ‘All classes of labor should have equal compensation.’ If that won’t do, I can easily change it.’
“Oh, that will do first rate—first rate.”
“Of course it is awful rot, but I thought it would please the feminine mind.”
“Awful what did you say, Mr. Scriver?”