looked down and found that he had somehow managed to walk from
the elevator to his office without knowing it. He had his hand on the
doorknob.

"I beg your pardon," he mumbled, and flung the door open in what he
hoped was a gallant gesture.

There was a crash as the door swung inward for a few feet and stopped.
The crash was immediately followed by a howl of pain. A moment later
Pete Bellows' flushed and furious face came around the side of the door.
He was rubbing his head.

"Mook, you idiot!" Bellows roared. "I ought to punch your nose for
this!"

"He didn't know your head was in the way," the girl said.

"Huh?" Bellows grunted. He took a good look at the girl and the anger
drained from his face. Without thinking he straightened his tie and
slicked back his oily black hair.

"You must be Miss Burnett, the girl the agency said they were sending,"
Bellows murmured in his most dulcet tones. "Well, well, Wilbur, this is
my new secretary."

"But how do you know I'll do?" Miss Burnett said, startled.

"Oh, you'll do. I just know you will," Bellows told her. "You and I are
going to get along just dandy."

"My shorthand is a little rusty," the girl said.

"What's a little thing like that?" Bellows laughed, ignoring the fact
that he had fired his last secretary because she had misspelled an
eight-syllable word.

But the last secretary had worn thick glasses, Wilbur recalled. That
would make a difference to Pete Bellows. He was suddenly aware that
Bellows was frowning at him.

"Get to work, Mook," Bellows said cheerfully. "Mother's Day is coming,
you know."

With what he pretended was a gentle pat on the back Bellows flung Wilbur
toward the tiny cubicle he occupied at the rear of the large office.
Once Bellows had played tackle on a football team and although he was
beefier now he was still very strong. Wilbur almost went through the
thin partition.

He bounced off and recovered his balance, then went into his cubicle
through the door. It was a windowless hole, lit by a single small bulb.
Wilbur worked at an old table which was neatly stacked with sheets of
blank paper. He furnished his own pen.

There was a small window in Wilbur's door, but contrary to what a
visitor might have expected, it had not been placed there for Wilbur's
convenience. The window was the means by which Bellows could watch his
poet and be certain that he was working every minute of the time.

* * * * *