Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 41, Number 118, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 5 November 1909 — THE WONDERFUL LETTER. [ARTICLE]

THE WONDERFUL LETTER.

Gorman’s stenographer allowed the unfinished letter to propect stiffly from her invincible No. 5 while she dreamed steadily out of the big, open window, Gonoan stuck his head into the office. “Mornin’,” blurted he, blushing furiously. “Nice day.” Miss O’Rourke nodded, blushing too, and Gorman backed ois* nearly slamming the frosted glass from the door. Each morning he entered the office with a beautiful string of comment conceived during the ride downtown upon the tip of his tongue for delivery to the girl at the machine. But when he popped his rather bald head Into the little sub_offlce he forgot the prospects of early spring, the chances of ‘tile Cubs for the pennant and the new kind of birds upon the ladies hats, and said, “Mornin’—nice day! ” There were times when Miss O’Rourke found pinkish, lace paper valentines bearing delicious mottoes of sentiment upon her desk, or maybe red roses peeped from a yase filled with hydrant water—and she was far too shrewd not to guess where the tokens came from. But the only time she had endeavored to thank Gorman he had denied the deed with vigor and, pleading an engagement, had remained away from the office all day. So that afterward, in the interests of the business, Miss O’Rourke kept her thanks to herself. This morning, though, it was quite evident that Gorman was much perturbed. For Instance, he thrust his Head Into the inner office and said for the seoond time, “Mornin’ —nice day!” grinning most idiotically. Later he rdng for Miss O’Rourke, only to Inform her that he believed Boston would win the pennant after all. Finally he rang long and vigorously, and when she rtwponded motioned for her to take his dictation: “Mr. John Jones, 999 Jones street, Jonesville,” — “What an odd name and address!’’ murmured Maggie O’Rourke. Gorman grinned foolishly and resumed: “Dear Jones: I am considering a mompntuous step—one that will affect my whole life. I am very lonely, Jones. No one in the world to. care for me. I want to ask you something,” Gorman stopped and eyed the girl. He was red as a well-burned brick and actually perspiring. The stenographer lifted her head of carameloopper hair and regarded him with her gray eyes. “Well, why don’t you ask her —that is him?” she inquired. “Oh —er—yes,’’ stammered Gorman. “We shall proceed: “There is a certain person who is essential to my happiness, but is beyond my grasp. She is a red rose, a pearl and worthy to marry a duke. Had I better forget this sentiment of sweet seventeen in the month of June, or test my fate in one bold .throw? Write me, Jones. I must now say good-by. Yours,

" ‘GORMAN.’ ” “There,” said Gorman, with tremulous tones and with a strange look at Miss Maggie O’Rourke, "You may typewrite that.” It seemed to Gorman that the girl was over long at the transcribing, but eventually she returned and handed him the completed letter. “I had trouble with my notes,’’ she explained, blushing violently. hesitated and looked at me so queerly.” T Gorman read: "Dear Jones: I am considering a matrimonial step—one that will provide me with a wife. I am very homely, Jones; but what gBl minds a little thing like that. I am going to ask her some time }n the next million years. There is a certain girl who Is dying to have me, but who doesn’t get a chance. She is a red-headed Irish girl and her name is Maggie O’Rourke. Hadn’t we better have the wedding on the 17th of June as soon as Maggie can make her trousseau? Goodby Jones. I must now kiss my fiance. Yours, GORMAN.’’ "My stenographv is getting something awful,” apologized Maggie O’Rourke. “But your transcript Is perfect,” bubbled Gorman. "It 1b just what I’ve been dying to say for two years.” The he stooped and carried out the last declaration in the wonderful letter. —Stuart B. Stone.