At the stamp window Mr. Burton Higman, dealing with the United States Government, produced a silver dollar and gave his order in a firm and manly voice.
“Hullo, Buddy,” greeted the clerk. “Still got that girl in Yurrup, I see.”
A fire sprang and spread in Mr. Higman’s face. “And the rest in postal-cards,” he directed with dignity.
“You’re our best little customer,” continued the flippant clerk. (The little customer murderously contemplated arranging with The Guardian, later, to write an editorial about him and get him fired!) “Write to her every day, don’t che?”
“Shuttup, y’ ole fool!” retorted the infuriate youth, stepping aside to reckon up his purchase, lest it might be short.
“Yessir,” continued the blatant gossip, to the next comer. “He sure is the ready letter-writer, only an’’ original. Don’t see how he has time to help you edit your paper, Mr. Robson.”
Mr. Robson! The shock diverted Buddy at the twenty-eighth count. He looked up into the friendly face of the Boss.
He hastened to defend himself.
“I yain’t, either, Mr. Robson. ’Tain’t letters at all. They’re fer noospapers.”
“Are they?” said his chief, walking out into the wintry air with him. “I did n’t know we had so much foreign circulation, Buddy.”