Then he turns around and sees me standin' there grinnin'. "Torchy," says he, "are there any more like that around the shop?"
"None that I ever saw," says I.
"Thank Heaven!" says he. "Send in one of the other kind."
"Want a real ripe one?" says I.
He does. And say, we got plenty of them. I picks out one with washed-out eyes, front teeth that sticks out, and no shape to speak of. She could make the typewriter do a double shuffle, though, and there couldn't anybody around the place sling out words faster'n she could take 'em down on her pad, or any she couldn't spell right the first crack. The old man fixes it that she's to go over Mildred's work with an ink eraser before it comes to him.
If Mildred knew about it, she never let on. Nothin' much bothered her. She'd come sailin' in any old time durin' the forenoon, lookin' as han'some as a florist's window and actin' as if she never heard of such a thing as a time clock. Piddie tackles her only once.
"Miss Morgan," says he, "business begins here at nine o'clock promptly."
"How absurd!" says Mildred, and Piddie don't get over the shock for an hour.
About the second week all hands took a vote that Mildred wa'n't much of a success as a typewriter artist and that she ought to be fired. The old man put it up to Mr. Robert, and Mr. Robert shoves it back at him. Then they both loaded it onto Piddie and cleared out. When they come back they asks him if he's done it.
"Well," says he, colorin' up, "not exactly."