You don't mind me doing
school-marm, George, do you? It's all for your good.'
'Sure,' said Rutherford, with a grin.
She smiled approvingly.
'That's better! You're Little Willie, the Apt Pupil, all right. What
were we talking about before we switched off on to the educational
rail? I know--about your writing. What were you writing?'
'A story.'
'For a paper?'
'For a magazine.'
'What! One of the fiction stories about the Gibson hero and the girl
whose life he saved, like you read?'
'That's the idea.'
She looked at him with a new interest.
'Gee, George, who'd have thought it! Fancy you being one of the
high-brows! You ought to hang out a sign. You look just ordinary.'
'Thanks!'
'I mean as far as the grey matter goes. I didn't mean you were a bad
looker. You're not. You've got nice eyes, George.'
'Thanks.'
'I like the shape of your nose, too.'
'I say, thanks!'
'And your hair's just lovely!'
'I say, really. Thanks awfully!'
She eyed him in silence for a moment. Then she burst out:
'You say you don't like the bank?'
'I certainly don't.'
'And you'd like to strike some paying line of business?'
'Sure.'
'Then why don't you make your fortune by hiring yourself out to a
museum as the biggest human clam in captivity? That's what you are. You
sit there just saying "Thanks," and "Bai Jawve, thanks awf'lly," while
a girl's telling you nice things about your eyes and hair, and you
don't do a thing!'
Rutherford threw back his head and roared with laughter.
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