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"Sure they have th' right," admitted Flannery pleasantly, but pushing the package slowly toward Mr. Warold; "sure they have! But not in th' ixpriss office av th' Interurban. 'T is agin th' rules t' spell any feenixes with an 'o' in th' ixpriss office, or any sulphurs with a 'ph, or any armours with a 'u. Thim spellin's and two hunderd an' ninety-sivin more are agin th' rules, and can't go.
"An' I tell ye," said Flannery, holding the package away from him with a firm hand, "that rules is rules, and gineral orders is worse than rules, an' thim spellin's can't go." Mr. Warold flushed. He put his hand opposite to Flannery's hand on the package and pushed with an equal firmness. "I offer this package for shipment," he said with a trace of anger beginning to show in his voice.
"I say, you know, you re one of these clever ones thinkin' an' writin' an' all that an' yet you play footer like an archangel a blarsted archangel. Lucky devil!" He sighed heavily. "Every time I put on my footer boots," he pursued, "I say to myself, 'What you'd be givin', Jerry Lawrence, if you could just go and write a book! What you'd give! But it ain't likely my spellin's somethin' shockin'."
"I guess the spellin's as good as the readin'll be," he retorted, with evident irritation. "I bet I spell as well as any o' the folks thet takes the paper." "And some words I can't make out." "Oh, the edytur'll fix that. Say, air ye tryin' to queer my story, mar? Do ye set up to know more'n I do about story writin'?" "No," she said; "I ain't talented, Skim, an' you be."
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