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 am
not sure if we have any india-rubber, but that can be procured. And a
ruler," he said, "for drawing straight lines and all that sort of
thing."

"And a typewriter?" she suggested.

Bones smacked his forehead with unnecessary violence.

"A typewriter! I knew this office wanted something. I said to Ali
yesterday: '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 devoted
to me, body and soul. He has been, so to speak, in the family for
years," 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 is
in Bournemouth just now. He had sniffles." he explained rapidly, "and
then he used to go to sleep, and snore. I hate people who snore, don't
you?"

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--I
mean 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 the
palatial buildings wherein the office of Bones was situated saw, some
few minutes later, a bare-headed young man dashing down the stairs
three at a time; met him, half an hour later, staggering up those same
stairs handicapped by a fifty-pound typewriter in one hand, and a chair
in the style of the late Louis Quinze in the other, and wondered at the
urgency of his movements.

"I want to tell you," said the girl, "that I know very little about
shorthand."

"Shorthand is quite unnecessary, my dear--my jolly old stenographer,"
said Bones firmly. "I object to shorthand on principle, and I shall
always object to it. If people," he went on, "were intended to write
shorthand, they would have been born without the alphabet. Another
thing----"

"One moment, Mr. Tibbetts," she said. "I don't know a great deal about
typewriting, either."

Bones beamed.

"There I can help you," he said. "Of course it isn't necessary that
you