Judge — February 14, 1920 — page 17: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Drawn by Exusrr Warsox Miss Clancy’s Romance -* By ARTHUR ISS CLANCY, torty-six years old and still in harness, stenographer sans pareille, disciplinarian extraordinary, virtual major domo of the Little Nemo Suspender and Supporter Company, still unmarried, and glad of it—though a bit bitter at times—abstractedly ruffled the papers on her desk. It was nine o’clock, which in the urban office corresponds with four o’clock on the farm; things wake up. The sunlight entered in streaks. From doors came feminine forms, wriggling and giggling as they flowed to identical desks, prepared to talk and type alternately from then on till five, with forty-five minutes off for éclairs. They were the battery of efficient, after a fashion, stenographers, all under the keen colonelcy of Commander Clancy. Desk-tops banged back; chilled typewriters bourgeoncd instantaneously. In the next minute the Jong room burst into a bedlam of mechanical clacking. Twenty young spines straightened like soldiers on review; ‘ten times as many fingers raced like animate arrows. The gossamer-clad back presented to Miss Clancy pink, imperturbable surfaces, as though the intuitive owners > 13 rroperty ov seattle Public Library “A Crear Case’ C. Brooks well knew that not only their work but their youth suffered supercilious scanning. Delightfully disregardful of transerip- tion or punctuation, the lovely Lorelei sang on. “TI can’t understand it,” Miss Clancy secretly admitted to herself. “It’s absolutely marvelous, that’s all! Coming in here and working all day, then going out and dancing till two in the morning, and then coming in again fresh as rosebuds. Humph! “Now, why can’t J do that?” The door opened and a frail, lily-like creature entered and sanctimoniously swayed on to Miss Clancy’s acid reception. Miss Clancy shot a glance to the tell-tale clock, and made an obvious statement: “Miss Mooney, you are ten minutes tardy.” “Tknowit.” Her pretty eyes lowered in heartbroken contri- tion. “But J wuz out with my John-Henry las’ ni’.” Miss Mooney, the rookie typist, was folly personified. Her delicate, rouged face surmounting a Jong, white neck, was continually bobbing and becking like a foolish flower. ‘Her rosy lips pouted purposed invitation. Miss Clancy, her disapproving eyes on a liberal expanse of (Continued on page 30)