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Updated: May 18, 2025
And yet we found it very difficult to pass an hour separated. The professor noticed this, and laughed at us. We were not even embarrassed. "Sunday passed in pious contemplation of the ocean. Daisy read a little in her prayer-book, and the professor threw a cloth over his type-writer and strolled up and down the sands.
So it was that, when I next heard the tapping keys and dulcet bell of my Enchanted Type-writer, and, after listening intently for a moment, realized that my friend Boswell was making a copy of a Sherlock Holmes Memoir thereon for his next Sunday's paper, all thought of the interesting little red book of the last meeting flew out of my head.
The argumentum ad hominem is not an easy thing with men, but with women it is impossible. Hence, I let the type-writer click and ring for a fortnight. Finally, to my relief, I recognized Boswell's touch upon the keys and sauntered up to the side of the machine. "Is this Boswell Jim Boswell?" I inquired. "All that's left of him," was the answer. "How have you been?"
In doing this he would satisfy everybody the grocer, his sister, Ruth, and even Maria, to whom he owed a month's room rent. He was two months behind with his type-writer, and the agency was clamoring for payment or for the return of the machine.
She plunged out of the carriage so hastily when she reached the office that she did not think of paying the driver; and he had to call after her when she had got half-way up the stairs. Then she went straight to Lapham's room, with outrage in her heart. There was again no one there but that type-writer girl; she jumped to her feet in a fright, as Mrs.
Who or what could it be that was engaged upon the type-writer at that unholy hour, 3 A.M.? If a mortal being, why was my coming no interruption? If a supernatural being, what infernal complication might not the immediate future have in store for me?
So he began, following his right hand with his left: "The badness of this writing is because I am blind and cannot see my pen." H'mph! even a lawyer can't mistake that. It must be signed, I suppose, but it needn't be witnessed. Now an inch lower why did I never learn to use a type-writer? "This is the last will and testament of me, Richard Heldar.
Dodd, my dear," she was kind enough to say. "And a miracle they naygur waheenies let ye lave the oilands. I have my suspicions of Shpeedy," she added, roguishly. "Did ye see him after the naygresses now?" I gave Speedy an unblemished character. "The one of ye will niver bethray the other," said the playful dame, and ushered me into a bare room, where Mamie sat working a type-writer.
Kenyon, sir, he said respectfully, and then closed the door behind him, leaving John Kenyon standing in a large room somewhat handsomely furnished, with two desks near the window. From an inner room came the muffled click, click, click of a type-writer. Seated at one of the desks was young Longworth, who did not look round as Kenyon was announced.
A later volume recorded his retirement from the service. Hume and Winter reached Brett's flat together. "Any luck with the Jap, sir?" asked the detective cheerily. Brett told them what had happened, and Winter sighed. Here, indeed, was a promising subject for an arrest. Why not lock him up, and seize the type-writer? But he knew the barrister by this time, and uttered no word.
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