“I said K.”
“I beg your pardon, you said O. K. Perhaps you had better write it yourself.”
“I said ‘Oh’—”
“Just now you said K.”
“Allow me to finish what I started to say. I said ‘Oh,’ because I did not understand what you were asking me. I did not mean that it was my initial. My name is Kirby Jepson.”
“Oh!”
“No, not O., but K.,” said the man. “Give me the pencil, and I’ll write it down for you myself. There, I guess it’s O. K. now.”
The furnishing of the new house had gone on vociferously. All the family told stories of the beautiful and rare articles picked up at auctions, usually at such bargains as only amateurs in such matters are able to find. There was naturally much curiosity to see how the house looked. The first visitor who had the opportunity to inspect it was eagerly questioned by her friends.
“I can’t describe it myself,” she explained. “All I can say is that auctions speak louder than words.”