“Couldn’t help it! Fiddlesticks! And don’t you stare at me like that, either. It’s a mighty good thing you’re not in my office; I’d bundle you out in short order.”
“I’d be glad to leave it,” snapped Willie.
Mr. Horatio Sharswood’s florid face turned a shade redder.
“Did you ever hear of such impudence?” he stormed. “Beaumont, do you allow your clients to be spoken to in that manner by a little whiffet of an office boy? Does he express any regret for his action?—oh, no—just brazens it out. Why—why——”
“I’m not a whiffet!”
Mr. Sharswood stared in amazement.
“Never lost anything yourself, I s’pose?” piped Willie.
“Be quiet!” commanded Mr. Beaumont, sternly. “Mr. Sharswood,” he added, “this is my ward, Willie Sloan. I regret exceedingly the loss of the paper, and will do all in my power to——”
“Oh, gee—oh, my! If that ain’t the queerest yet!”
This exclamation, in Willie Sloan’s squeaky voice, interrupted him. The boy was clutching an envelope which he had just drawn from some deep recess of a capacious pocket, and stood staring at it with a comical look of bewilderment.