"Typewrite? Do you mean, can I use
a typewriting machine?"
"Yes! Yes! For heaven's sake, yes!"
"No, I cannot!"
"Bookkeep?"
"No."
"Good Lord! What have I got?" inquired Mr. Bates of himself, in a tone,
however, perfectly audible to those in the immediate neighbourhood.
"Try him licking stamps!" suggested the lanky youth in a voice that,
while it reached the ears of Jimmy and others near by, including
Cameron, was inaudible to the manager. Mr. Bates caught the sound,
however, and glared about him through his spectacles. Time was being
wasted--the supreme offense in that office--and Mr. Bates was fast
losing his self-command.
"Here!" he cried suddenly, seizing a sheaf of letters. "File these
letters. You will be able to do that, I guess! File's in the vault over
there!"
Cameron took the letters and stood looking helplessly from them to Mr.
Bates' bald head, that gentleman's face being already in close proximity
to the papers on his desk.
"Just how do I go about this?--I mean, what system do you--"
"Jim!" roared Mr. Bates, throwing down his pen, "show this con--show
Mr. Cameron how to file these letters! Just like these blank old-country
chumps!" added Mr. Bates, in a lower voice, but loud enough to be
distinctly heard.
Jim came up with a smile of patronising pity on his face.
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