Horace learns an Art, pays a Bill, and lends a Helping Hand.
“I say, Cruden,” said Waterford to Horace one morning, shortly after Reginald’s departure from London, “I shall get jealous if you don’t pull up.”
“Jealous of me?” said Horace. “Whatever for?”
“Why, before you came I flattered myself I was a bit of a dab at the scissors-and-paste business, but you’ve gone and cut me out completely.”
“What rot!” said Horace, laughing. “There’s more than enough cutting out to do with the morning papers to leave any time for operating on you. Besides, any duffer can do work like that.”
“That’s all very well,” said Waterford. “There’s only one duffer here that can do as much as me and Booms put together, and that’s you. Now, if you weren’t such a racehorse, I’d propose to you to join our shorthand class. You’ll have to learn it some time or other, you know.”
“The very thing I’d like,” said Horace. “That is,” he added, “if it won’t take up all a fellow’s evenings. How often are the classes?”
“Well, as often as we like. Generally once a week. Booms’s washerwoman—”
“Whatever has she to do with shorthand?” asked Horace.
“More than you think, my boy. She always takes eight days to wash his collars and cuffs. He sends them to her on Wednesdays, and gets them back on the next day week, so that we always practise shorthand on the Wednesday evening. Don’t we, Booms?” he inquired, as the proud owner of that name entered the office at that moment.