“They think you ought to be harnessed with a punch, like a horsecar conductor,” said Miss Archer, laughing, and added,
“I wish I knew how to telegraph, I would have a chat with your C. I am getting very much interested in him!”
Quimby twirled his hat uneasily.
“But—I beg pardon, but he may be a soiled invisible, you know!” he hinted, seemingly determined to keep this possibility uppermost.
Before Nattie could again defend her C a woman, covered with cheap finery, thrust her head into the window.
“How much does it cost to telegram?” she asked.
“To what place did you wish to send?” Nattie inquired.
With a look, as if she considered this a very impertinent question, the woman replied, with a slight toss of her head,
“It’s no matter about the place, I only want to know what it costs to telegram!”
“That depends entirely on where the message is going,” answered Nattie, with a glance at Miss Archer.
“Oh, does it?” said the woman, looking surprised. “Well, to Chicago, then.”
Nattie told her the tariff to that city.
“Is that the cheapest?” she then asked. “I only want to send a few words, about six.”
“The price is the same for one or ten words,” said Nattie rather impatiently.
The woman gave another surprised stare.
“That’s strange!” she said incredulously. “Well”—moving away—“I’ll write then; I am not going to pay for ten words when I want to send six.”
“That is a specimen of the ignorance you were just speaking of, I presume,” laughed Miss Archer, as soon as the would-be sender was out of hearing.
“Yes,” replied Nattie, “it’s hard to make them believe sometimes that everything less than ten words is a stated price, and that we only charge per word after that number. And, speaking of ignorance, do you know I once actually had a letter brought me, all sealed, to be sent that way by telegraph.”
Miss Archer laughed again, and Quimby inquired,
“I—I beg pardon, but did I understand that the last came within your experience?”
“Yes,” Nattie replied, “and I had a young woman come in here once, who asked me to write the message for her, and after I had done so, in a somewhat hasty scrawl, she took it, looked it all over critically, dotted some ‘i’s,’ and crossed some ‘t’s,’ I all the time staring, amazed, and wondering if she supposed I could not read my own handwriting, then scowled and threw it down disgustedly saying, ‘John never can read that! I shall have to write it myself. He knows my writing!’ ”
“Can such things be!” cried Miss Archer.
“But,” asked Quimby, from his uncomfortable perch on the edge of the chair, “Isn’t there a—a something—a facsimile arrangement?”
“I believe there is, but it is not yet perfected,” replied Nattie.
“Ah, well! then the young woman was only in advance of the age,” said Miss Archer; “and what with that and the telephone, and that dreadful phonograph that bottles up all one says and disgorges at inconvenient times, we will soon be able to do everything by electricity; who knows but some genius will invent something for the especial use of lovers? something, for instance, to carry in their pockets, so when they are far away from each other, and pine for a sound of ‘that beloved voice,’ they will have only to take up this electrical apparatus, put it to their ears, and be happy. Ah! blissful lovers of the future!”
“Yes!—I—yes, that would be a good idea!” cried Quimby eagerly; then instantly fearing he had betrayed himself, turned red, and clutched at the mustache that eluded his grasp. Miss Archer looked at him and smiled, and Nattie was about to expound further when she heard C asking on the wire,
“N, haven’t your visitors gone yet? Tell them to hurry!”
“You wouldn’t say so,” Nattie responded to him, “if you knew what a handsome young lady one of my two visitors is. We have been talking about you, too.”
“Introduce me, please do,” said C.
“What are you doing, now?” asked Miss Archer, watchful of Nattie’s smiling face.
Leaving the key open, Nattie explained, to Quimby’s unconcealed dissatisfaction; but Miss Archer was delighted.
“Oh! do introduce me! Can you anyway?” she said.
Nattie nodded affirmatively, and taking hold of the key, wrote, “She is as anxious as you are. So allow me to make you acquainted with Miss Archer, a young lady with the prettiest black eyes I ever saw!”
“Is she an operator?” asked C.
“Doesn’t know a dot from a dash,” Nattie answered him.
“Then tell her in plain language, that this is the happiest moment of my life, and also that black eyes are my especial adoration!”
“What have you been telling him about me, you dreadful girl?” queried Miss Archer, shaking her head remonstratingly when this was repeated to her. “But you may inform him I am delighted to make his acquaintance, and hope he has curly hair, because it’s so nice to pull!”
“With the hope of such a happy occurrence, I will hereafter do up my hair in papers,” C replied when Nattie had repeated this to him. “But do not slight your other visitor.”
“Shall I introduce you?” asked Nattie holding the key open, and turning to Quimby, who had betrayed various symptoms of uneasiness while this conversation was going on, and who now grasped his hat firmly, as if to throw it at the little sounder that represented the offending C, and answered,
“Oh, no! I—really I—I beg pardon, but it’s really no matter about me—you know!”
“He says he is of no consequence,” Nattie said to C.
“He!” repeated C, “a he, is it? Ought I to be jealous? Is it you, or our black-eyed friend who is the attraction?”
Nattie replied only with a ha!
“Is he talking now?” asked Miss Archer, mindful of Nattie’s smile, and nodding towards the clattering sounder, at which Quimby was scowling.
“No, some other office is sending business now, so our conversation is suspended,” answered Nattie, as much to
