I don't intend to let this
play-acting upset your health."
But I refused. "Unless, of course, you insist," I finished. He only
shook his head, however, and left the room. I felt that I had lost my
Last Friend.
I did not try the keys myself, but instead stood off a short distance
and through them through the window. I learned later that they struck
Mr. Beecher on the head. Not knowing, of course, that I had flung them,
and that my reason was pure Friendliness and Idealizm, he through them
out again with a violent exclamation. They fell at my feet, and lay
there, useless, regected, tradgic.
At last I summoned courage to speak.
"Can't I do somthing to help?" I said, in a quaking voice, to the
window.
There was no anser, but I could hear a pen scraching on paper.
"I do so want to help you," I said, in a louder tone.
"Go, away" said his voice, rather abstracted than angry.
"May I try the keys?" I asked. Be still, my Heart! For the scraching had
ceased.
"Who's that?" asked the beloved voice. I say `beloved' because an Ideal
is always beloved. The voice was beloved, but sharp.
"It's me."
I heard him mutter somthing, and I think he came to the Door.
"Look here," he said. "Go away. Do you understand? I want to work. And
don't come near here again until seven o'clock."
"Very well," I said faintly.
"And then come without fail," he said.
"Yes, Mr. Beecher," I replied. How commanding he was! Strong but tender!
"And if anyone comes around making a noise, before that, you shoot them
for me, will you?"
"SHOOT them?"
"Drive them off, or use a Bean-shooter.
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