H. R. walked to his office, thinking of the engagement-ring. He
therefore rang for Maximilian Onthemaker, Esquire.
"Come up at once!"
"Damnation, I will," said Max. "I'm busy as the dickens, but an order
from you is--"
"Another front page--with pictures!"
"I'm half-way up, already!" said Max. Before the telephone receiver
could descend on the holder, H. R. heard a voice impatiently shriek,
"Down!" to an elevator-man two and one-half miles away.
When Mr. Onthemaker, his face alight with eagerness to serve the cause
of the poor sandwich-men free gratis, for nothing, could speak, H. R.
told him, calmly:
"Max, I am going to marry the only daughter of George G. Goodchild,
president of the Ketcham National Bank. Get photographs of her. Try La
Touche and the other fashionable photographers. They will require an
order from Miss Goodchild."
"Written?" asked Mr. Onthemaker, anxiously.
"I don't know."
"I'll call up my office, and Miss Hirschbaum will give the order."
"Can she talk like--"
"Oh, she goes to the swell Gentile theaters," Max reassured him.
"Don't say I'm engaged, and tell 'em not to bother the parents." He
meant the reporters.