ulted, “There’s style for you, my son. You’re lucky in meeting up with me.”
Stanley turned aside to conceal his dismay and in a choked voice asked, “And now as to my duties?”
“Build fires, put on the coppers, clean the kettles, pots and pans, peel potatoes—”
“Hold hard! Peeling potatoes is girl’s work. I’ll have none of it.”
Bub sank on the bed, head in his hands, and moodily remarked, “I don’t know as I can do anything for you after all. You’re too finicky. What had you in mind, Mister Malcolm?”
“I certainly expected to get some clerical work, something more fitting,” irritably returned Stanley.
“Very well, Mister Malcolm,” politely observed Bub. “Please draw the chair up to the table and write as I talk. No, I mean it. We must find out where you are heavily wooded and blaze a trail to that place.”
Stanley grimly seated himself and dipped the pen. “‘Mister Bub Thomas, Esquire,’” began Bub, gravely.
“What nonsense is this?” cried Stanley, throwing down the pen.
“See here, Mister Malcolm, pick up that pen,” growled Bub. “Think I’m spending my
