Little Lady of the Big House | Page 2

orderly with books, magazines and scribble-pads, there was
room on the big reading stand for matches, cigarettes, an ash-tray, and a
thermos bottle. A phonograph, for purposes of dictation, stood on a
hinged and swinging bracket. On the wall, under the barometer and
thermometers, from a round wooden frame laughed the face of a girl.
On the wall, between the rows of buttons and a switchboard, from an
open holster, loosely projected the butt of a .44 Colt's automatic.
At six o'clock, sharp, after gray light had begun to filter through the
wire netting, Dick Forrest, without raising his eyes from the
proofsheets, reached out his right hand and pressed a button in the
second row. Five minutes later a soft-slippered Chinese emerged on the
sleeping-porch. In his hands he bore a small tray of burnished copper
on which rested a cup and saucer, a tiny coffee pot of silver, and a
correspondingly tiny silver cream pitcher.
"Good morning, Oh My," was Dick Forrest's greeting, and his eyes
smiled and his lips smiled as he uttered it.
"Good morning, Master," Oh My returned, as he busied himself with
making room on the reading stand for the tray and with pouring the
coffee and cream.
This done, without waiting further orders, noting that his master was
already sipping coffee with one hand while he made a correction on the
proof with the other, Oh My picked up a rosy, filmy, lacy boudoir cap
from the floor and departed. His exit was noiseless. He ebbed away like
a shadow through the open French windows.

At six-thirty, sharp to the minute, he was back with a larger tray. Dick
Forrest put away the proofs, reached for a book entitled "Commercial
Breeding of Frogs," and prepared to eat. The breakfast was simple yet
fairly substantial--more coffee, a half grape-fruit, two soft-boiled eggs
made ready in a glass with a dab of butter and piping hot, and a sliver
of bacon, not over-cooked, that he knew was of his own raising and
curing.
By this time the sunshine was pouring in through the screening and
across the bed. On the outside of the wire screen clung a number of
house-flies, early-hatched for the season and numb with the night's cold.
As Forrest ate he watched the hunting of the meat-eating yellow-
jackets. Sturdy, more frost-resistant than bees, they were already on the
wing and preying on the benumbed flies. Despite the rowdy noise of
their flight, these yellow hunters of the air, with rarely ever a miss,
pounced on their helpless victims and sailed away with them. The last
fly was gone ere Forrest had sipped his last sip of coffee, marked
"Commercial Breeding of Frogs" with a match, and taken up his
proofsheets.
After a time, the liquid-mellow cry of the meadow-lark, first vocal for
the day, caused him to desist. He looked at the clock. It marked seven.
He set aside the proofs and began a series of conversations by means of
the switchboard, which he manipulated with a practiced hand.
"Hello, Oh Joy," was his first talk. "Is Mr. Thayer up?... Very well.
Don't disturb him. I don't think he'll breakfast in bed, but find out....
That's right, and show him how to work the hot water. Maybe he
doesn't know... Yes, that's right. Plan for one more boy as soon as you
can get him. There's always a crowd when the good weather comes
on.... Sure. Use your judgment. Good-by."
"Mr. Hanley?... Yes," was his second conversation, over another switch.
"I've been thinking about the dam on the Buckeye. I want the figures on
the gravel-haul and on the rock-crushing.... Yes, that's it. I imagine that
the gravel-haul will cost anywhere between six and ten cents a yard
more than the crushed rock. That last pitch of hill is what eats up the
gravel-teams. Work out the figures. ... No, we won't be able to start for

a fortnight. ... Yes, yes; the new tractors, if they ever deliver, will
release the horses from the plowing, but they'll have to go back for the
checking.... No, you'll have to see Mr. Everan about that. Good-by."
And his third call:
"Mr. Dawson? Ha! Ha! Thirty-six on my porch right now. It must be
white with frost down on the levels. But it's most likely the last this
year.... Yes, they swore the tractors would be delivered two days ago....
Call up the station agent. ... By the way, you catch Hanley for me. I
forgot to tell him to start the 'rat-catchers' out with the second
instalment of fly-traps.... Yes, pronto. There were a couple of dozen
roosting on my screen this morning.... Yes.... Good- by."
At this stage, Forrest slid out of bed in his pajamas, slipped his feet into
the slippers, and