"JOYCE."
I read this through (it was so like Joyce I could almost fancy I heard her speaking), and then I turned to the telegraph-boy, who was still occupied in taking stock of his surroundings.
"There's no answer, thank you, Charles," I said. "How much do I owe you?"
He pulled himself together abruptly. "It will be two shillings, the post-office fee, sir."
"Well, there it is," I said; "and there's another shilling for yourself."
He jumped up and pocketed the coins with an expression of gratitude. Then he paused irresolutely. "Beg pardon, sir," he observed, "but ain't you a gentleman who makes things?"
I laughed. "We most of us do that, Charles," I said, "if they're only mistakes."
He looked round the shed with an expression of slight awe. "Can you make fireworks?" he asked.
I glanced instinctively at the little heap of powder. "Of a kind," I admitted modestly. "Why?"
He gave an envious sigh. "I only wondered if it was hard, sir. I'd rather be able to make fireworks than do anything."