Page:Our Little Girl (1923).pdf/132



“And now, ladies, we'll see what we can do for you.”

Hamilton Harper swung two chairs into line near his desk.

“Some juggling, what?” He smiled and slapped his hands together with so extraordinary a detonation that Dorothy jumped.

“Daily dozen,” he went on. “Get out of bed, open the window and-"

He went through a series of evolutions.

“Makes you ready to lick your weight in wildcats. I’ve done it, too!”

Dorothy wondered what manner of handmaiden to the arts Hamilton Harper might be. Maxwell didn’t look like an artist or even like one interested in the more cultural aspects of life, but there was something gentle, almost poetic in his intonation. Harper, with his full, protruding underlip, his small but muscular frame, his brilliantly colored cravat and his checked suit, corresponded to her mental picture of a prize fighter. The long, thick yellow hair, coarse and straight, and the flat, pugnacious nose confirmed the impression. Harper’s voice was rough and his speech Dorothy would have characterized as “Western.” He was distinctly a breezy sort, she concluded; a good business man, probably.

Harper studied the “Snappygram” which Mrs. Loamford deposited on the desk.