The play was on. Mr. T. Poppins, in the role of the president,
entered, with a stern high expression on his face, threw a "Good
morning, Thorne," at Wrenn, his secretary, and peeled off his gloves.
(Mr. Wrenn noted the gloves; they were a Touch.)
Mr. Wrenn approached diffidently, his face expressionless, lest
Mrs. Arty laugh at him. "Here--
"Say, what do you think would be a good way for the secretary to
tell the crowd that the other guy is the president? Say, how
about this: `The vice-president of the railway would like to
have you sign these, sir, as president'?"
"That's fine!" exclaimed Mrs. Arty, whose satin dress was
carefully spread over her swelling knees, as she sat in the oak
rocker, like a cheerful bronze monument to Sunday propriety.
"But don't you think he'd say, `when it's convenient to you, sir'?"
"Gee, that's dandy!"
The play was on.
It ended at seven. Mr. Wrenn took but fifteen minutes for
Sunday supper, and wrote till one of the morning, finishing the
first draft of his manuscript.
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