lamb chops, here comes this glad word out of the State of Maine. "It's
nice up here," says she; "but awfully stupid. VEE." That's all--just
a picture postcard. But, say, I'd have put it in a solid gold frame if
there'd been one handy.

As it is, I sticks the card up on the desk in front of me and gazes
longin'. Some shack, I should judge by the picture,--one of these low,
wide affairs, all built of cobblestones, with a red tile roof and
yellow awnin's. Right on the water too. You can see the waves
frothin' almost up to the front steps. Roarin' Rocks, Maine, is the
name of the place printed underneath.

"Nice, but stupid, eh?" says I confidential to myself. "That's too
bad. Wonder if I'd be bored to death with a week or so up there? I
wonder what she'd say if----"

B-r-r-r-r! B-r-r-r-r-r! That's always the way! I just get started on
some rosy dream, and I'm sailin' aloft miles and miles away, when off
goes that blamed buzzer, and back I flop into this same old chair
behind the same old brass rail! All for what? Why, Mr. Robert wants a
tub of desk pins. I gets 'em from Piddie, trots in, and slams 'em down
snappy at Mr. Robert's elbow.

"Eh?" says he, glancin' up startled.

"Said pins, dintcher?" says I.

"Why--er--yes," says he, "I believe I did. Thank you."

"Huh!" says I, turnin' on my heel.