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the box. It was a regular j? int-brush signature. Distinctive and as unforgetable as the man who wrote itt
Months passed. Column after column of copy was pounded out on my typewriter about Pess Christian happenings. Pay checks cam?* They were never large, but meant little extras for the children like a first formal for Barbara ? surprises and rewards for Joe Ebert. Rewards for me, too, for I felt that through these columns I was serving my community. The children were profiting, too, for in taking over household tasks they were learning that there Is dignity in all work that needs doing. So when the telephone rang unexpectedly one evening and Commodore Jahncke explained that he was looking for someone who could type, take shorthand, and understood a little about Journalist Jive it seemed that I might qualify.
And so with a stomach full of butterflies end assorted knots end bows I met Commodore Jahncke, was ah own through his home and went down the brick walk to the cottage nhich houses his books, collections, and study. At the end of the first morning I had accomplished nothing visible* The Commodore?s manner of speech was strange to my ears, the Commodore?s typewriter was light and walked across the desk constantly, the Commodore?s dictionery (a dollar one) was unreliable and I could never spell anything with any degree of accuracy. The Commodore?s desk, too, was low and the tops of my quaking knees kept scraping against it. I felt folded up. At the end of the morning I felt like paying