THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
"scrap" into his corn-cob pipe and waited. There she was! One, two, three and she was gone. Tan shoes and stockings and a bit of blue skirt. It was all over in three seconds, like one of those moving-pictures.
"H-e-y, Bill!" some one called, from up-stairs.
"Ye-ah. What's wanted?"
"Letter for you. Shall I throw it down?"
"I'll be up."
A letter? Who could be writing to him? He never had any bills; he paid as he went along. He rammed his unlighted pipe into his hip pocket and mounted the stairs. The young girl who acted as bookkeeper, stenographer, and cashier thrust the letter into his hand.
"Oh, you William!" she cried. "Some girl we don't know anything about."
"Aw!" He studied the envelope doubtfully. "Hargreave, Bell & Davis, attorneys and counselors at law. Say, Susie, have I been buying a sewing-machine, or have I fallen for some nifty book-agent's gab? I don't know any lawyers."
"Open it and see," advised Susie.
The letter was coldly brief. William Grogan was requested to call upon "the undersigned at his earliest convenience." Nothing more than that. William read it over four or five times, and it grew colder and colder with each reading. Lawyers, and after him.
"Where's Burns?" he demanded.
"In the office." Susie returned to her little grilled desk.
10
