"All right," said Ned. "Of course, it's none of our business how much love-poetry Holman makes, or how spooney it is, or what girl he sends it to, if he pays for it all. But don't forget to charge him for the oil. By the way, so many of the boys owe us for printing, I've bought a blank-book to put the accounts in, or we shall forget some of them. Monkey Roe's mother paid for the 'Orphan Boy' yesterday. I'll put that down now. Half a dollar wasn't enough to charge her; we must make it up on the next job we do for her or Monkey."
While he was saying this, he wrote in his book:
Mrs. Roe per Monkey 12 orphan boys 50 Paid.
Hardly had he finished the entry, when the door of the office was suddenly opened, and Patsy Rafferty thrust in his head and shouted:
"Jimmy the Rhymer's killed!"
"What?"
"What?"
"I say Jimmy the Rhymer's killed! And you done it, too!"
I am sorry that Patsy said "done," when he meant did. But he was a good-hearted boy, nevertheless; and probably his excitement was what made him forget his grammar.
"What do you mean?" said Ned, who had turned as pale as ashes.