Bones in London - Edgar Wallace [12]
Her eyes were smiling now, and she was to Bones’ unsophisticated eyes, and, indeed, to eyes more 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 about scheming, getting out ideas, using brains, initiative, bright–” He trailed off feebly as she shook her head.
“Do you want a secretary?” she asked, and Bones’ enthusiasm rose to the squeaking point.
“The very thing! I advertised in this morning’s Times. You saw the advertisement?”
“You are not telling the truth,” she said, looking at him with eyes that danced. “I read all the advertisement columns in The Times this morning, 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 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,” he 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 should know anything about typewriting. But I can give you a few hints,” he said. “This thing, when you jiggle it up and down, makes the thingummy-bob run along. Every time you hit one of these letters – I’ll show you. … Now, suppose I am writing ‘Dear Sir,’ I start with a ‘D.’ Now,