Brooke, pecking away at a typewriter in his sanctum, using two
fat fingers only in doing his writing rather than all of them as an
expert would do.
Brooke had learned to use the machine in that way, however, and would
adopt no other, although he had been shown by Jack, who was a rapid
writer on a machine, and could compose on it, that he could do much
faster work by the other method.
"How do you do, Sheldon?" said Brooke, looking up. "Got any news?"
"What are you going to do with that little gasolene engine that you
used to run your little presses with?" asked Jack.
"I don't know, sell it, I guess. It isn't good for much except junk."
"How much do you want for it?"
"Oh, you can have it if you think you can do anything with it," said
the editor carelessly.
"No, I don't want it for nothing. I'll pay you for it."
"What are you going to do with it? It's too little to run any but
the small presses. Ain't going to start a paper, are you?"
"No. I can fix it up so as to make it do good work. I want to put
it in a motor-boat."
"It might do for that, and if you can fix it up you're welcome to it.
You have a mechanical bent, I know, and I guess if any one can fix it
up, you can. Well, say ten dollars.
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