time up here for fun? ‘Mister Malcolm, Esquire. My dear sir; although I ain’t no particular ability and never worked I would like a nice job at a fat salary—’”
“I’ll write no more,” cried Stanley.
Bub reached over and picked up the paper and studied it thoughtfully; then he said, “I don’t blame you. They wouldn’t let you sharpen pencils in the office, and if you don’t cut more of a figure peeling potatoes than you do slinging ink you’ll say good-bye to the kitchen mighty quick. I can’t git into the office, but I’m more shakes then you on writing. See here,” and seizing the pen he rapidly copied Stanley’s scrawling effort and presented for inspection a fair, clean bit of copy.
“Why, you write better than I do,” sorrowfully admitted Stanley.
Blandly ignoring the compliment Bub assumed a paternal air and inquired, “What about arithmetic? Can you scale lumber, can you reckon stumpage? Or can you find a discount, the number of acres in a piece of land shaped like a lobster. I, myself, have gone only through plane geometry and the high school algebra. Of course Mister Malcolm is much farther advanced."
“No; I’m not,” soberly corrected Stanley,
