Bones in London. Wallace Edgar
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in! What the deuce are you standing out there for?"
Then he stared at his visitor, choked, went very red, choked again, andfixed his monocle.
"Come in, young miss, come in," he said gruffly. "Jolly old bell's outof order. Awfully sorry and all that sort of thing. Sit down, won'tyou?"
In the outer office there was no visible chair. The excellent Alipreferred sitting on the floor, and visitors were not encouraged.
"Come into my office," said Bones, "my private office."
The girl had taken him in with one comprehensive glance, and a littlesmile trembled on the corner of her lips as she followed the harassedfinancier into his "holy of holies."
"My little den," said Bones incoherently. "Sit down, jolly old – youngmiss. Take my chair – it's the best. Mind how you step over thattelephone wire. Ah!"
She did catch her feet in the flex, and he sprang to her assistance.
"Upsy, daisy, dear old – young miss, I mean."
It was a breathless welcome. She herself was startled by the warmth ofit; he, for his part, saw nothing but grey eyes and a perfect mouth, sensed nothing but a delicate fragrance of a godlike presence.
"I have come to see you – " she began.
"Jolly good of you," said Bones enthusiastically. "You've no idea howfearsomely lonely I get sometimes. I often say to people: 'Look me up, dear old thing, any time between ten and twelve or two and four; don'tstand on ceremony – '"
"I've come to see you – " she began again.
"You're a kind young miss," murmured Bones, and she laughed.
"You're not used to having girls in this office, are you?"
"You're the first," said Bones, with a dramatic flourish, "that everburst tiddly-um-te-um!"
To be mistaken for a welcome visitor – she was that, did she but guessit – added to her natural embarrassment.
"Well," she said desperately, "I've come for work."
He stared at her, refixing his monocle.
"You've come for work my dear old – my jolly old – young miss?"
"I've come for work," she nodded.
Bones's face was very grave.
"You've come for work." He thought a moment; then: "What work? Ofcourse," he added in a flurry, "there's plenty of work to do! Believeme, you don't know the amount I get through in this sanctum – that'sLatin for 'private office' – and the wretched old place is nevertidy – never! I am seriously thinking" – he frowned – "yes, I am veryseriously thinking of sacking the lady who does the dusting. Why, doyou know, this morning – "
Her eyes were smiling now, and she was to Bones's unsophisticated eyes, and, indeed, to eyes sophisticated, superhumanly lovely.
"I haven't come for a dusting job," she laughed.
"Of course you haven't," said Bones in a panic. "My dear old lady – my precious – my young person, I should have said – of course you haven't!
You've come for a job – you've come to work! Well, you shall have it!
Start right away!"
She stared.
"What shall I do?" she asked.
"What would I like you to do?" said Bones slowly. "What aboutscheming, getting out ideas, using brains, initiative, bright – " Hetrailed off feebly as she shook her head.
"Do you want a secretary?" she asked, and Bones's enthusiasm rose tothe squeaking point.
"The very thing! I advertised in this morning's Times. You saw theadvertisement?"
"You are not telling the truth," she said, looking at him with eyesthat danced. "I read all the advertisement columns in The Times thismorning, and I am quite sure that you did not advertise."
"I meant to advertise," said Bones gently. "I had the idea last night; that's the very piece of paper I was writing the advertisement on."
He pointed to a sheet upon the pad.
"A secretary? The very thing! Let me think."
He supported his chin upon one hand, his elbow upon another.
"You will want paper, pens, and ink – we have all those," he said."There is a large supply in that cupboard. Also india-rubber. I amnot sure if we have any india-rubber, but that can be procured. And aruler," he said, "for drawing straight lines and all that sort ofthing."
"And a typewriter?" she suggested.
Bones smacked his forehead with unnecessary violence.
"A typewriter! I knew this office wanted something. I said to Aliyesterday: 'You silly old ass – '"
"Oh, you have a girl?" she said disappointedly.
"Ali," said Bones, "is the name of a native man person who is devotedto me, body and soul. He has been, so to speak, in the family foryears," he explained.
"Oh, it's a man," she said.
Bones nodded.
"Ali. Spelt A-l-y; it's Arabic."
"A native?"
Bones nodded.
"Of course he will not be in your way," ha hastened to explain. "He isin Bournemouth just now. He had sniffles." he explained rapidly, "andthen he used to go to sleep, and snore. I hate people who snore, don'tyou?"
She laughed again. This was the most amazing of all possible employers.
"Of course," Bones went on, "I snore a bit myself. All thinkers do – Imean all brainy people. Not being a jolly old snorer yourself – "
"Thank you," said the girl.
Other tenants or the satellites of other tenants who occupied thepalatial buildings wherein the office of Bones was situated saw, somefew minutes later, a bare-headed young man dashing down the stairsthree at a time; met him, half an hour later, staggering up those samestairs handicapped by a fifty-pound typewriter in one hand, and a chairin the style of the late Louis Quinze in the other, and wondered at theurgency of his movements.
"I want to tell you," said the girl, "that I know very little aboutshorthand."
"Shorthand is quite unnecessary, my dear – my jolly old stenographer,"said Bones firmly. "I object to shorthand on principle, and I shallalways object to it. If people," he went on, "were intended to writeshorthand, they would have been born without the alphabet. Anotherthing – "
"One moment, Mr. Tibbetts," she said. "I don't know a great deal abouttypewriting, either."
Bones beamed.
"There I can help you," he said. "Of course it isn't necessary thatyou should know anything about typewriting. But I can give you a fewhints," he said. "This thing, when you jiggle it up and down, makesthe thingummy-bob run along. Every time you hit one of theseletters – I'll show you… Now, suppose I am writing 'Dear Sir,' Istart with a 'D.' Now, where's that jolly old 'D'?" He scowled at thekeyboard, shook his head, and shrugged his shoulders. "I thought so,"he said; "there ain't a 'D.' I had an idea that that wicked old – "
"Here's the 'D,'" she pointed out.
Bones spent a strenuous but wholly delightful morning and afternoon.
He was half-way home to his chambers in Curzon Street before he realized that he had not fixed the rather important question of salary.
He looked forward to another pleasant morning making good that lapse.
It was his habit to remain late at his office at least three nights aweek, for Bones was absorbed in his new career.
"Schemes Ltd." was no meaningless title. Bones had schemes whichembraced every field of industrial, philanthropic, and social activity.He had schemes for building houses, and schemes for planting rose treesalong all the railway tracks. He had schemes for building motor-cars, for founding labour colonies, for harnessing the