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Union uniform came to a halt in the doorway,
with a confused look on his face.
    "Come in," I said in a manner I hoped would encourage him to
overcome his hesitation.
    He looked down at the envelope in his hand, then at me, and took
two steps forward. He was a pale fellow, and from beneath the
uniform's cap his yellow hair stuck out like straw, suggesting a
truly dreadful haircut. He had a lost air, and my heart went out to
him.
    "I'm looking for somebody named Fremont Jones," he said. "This
is the right address. But is it a house or a business? I got a
residence address."
    "It is both, my residence being upstairs and my business being
right here. I am Fremont Jones." I smiled warmly and moved forward.
"You are in the right place. I take it that you have a telegram for
me?"
    "Yes, ma'am." He made as if to hand me the envelope with one
hand, while getting a notebook from an inner pocket with the other.
For a less awkward person this would have been easy, but this poor
fellow became all elbows and angles, as the notebook stuck in his
pocket and he let go of the envelope before it was quite in my
hand.
    I restrained my impulse to retrieve the telegram, else we should
have bumped heads; I had to restrain my impulse to laugh, too. He
would have thought I was laughing at him, although I would have
been laughing at the situation, and at the awkwardness of boys in
adolescence. He could not be long out of school. Or perhaps
circumstances had forced him to work when he would have preferred
to be at his lessons.
    "Sorry, ma'am," he muttered, handing over the envelope a
second time.
    "That is perfectly all right," I replied, moving to my desk and
opening the top drawer, while glancing curiously at the telegram. I
would have loved to rip it open right on the spot but a desire to
be kind to its deliverer took precedence.
    "You have to sign for it 1 ." he cried, as if afraid I
would disappear, although I had moved only a few feet.
    "Of course," I said, rummaging in the drawer and coming up with
a half dollar, "and so I shall, if you will be so good as to come
over to the desk."
    He came like a cautious cat investigating new territory,
shoulders hunched and eyes wide. "I don't get asked in much. I
mean, mostly people just keep me standing at the door."
    He fumbled his notebook open and offered it to me, indicating
with a callused finger the line for me to sign. This boy had until
recently done some heavy physical work, judging by the condition of
his hands.
    I signed with a bit of a flourish and returned the notebook.
"And this is for your trouble," I said, slipping the large coin
into his hand.
    "Oh," he said, shaking his head, "I got no troubles now. I got a
fine job, soon's I learn how to do it some faster, learn my way
around the big city and all."
    Now I did laugh, lightly; and I sensed that Michael had arrived
somewhere behind me, but he was hanging back. I cannot tell how I
am able to do it, but I usually know when Michael is anywhere
about, whether I can see him or not. To the Western Union boy I
said, "You must keep the money anyway-it's a gratuity for services
rendered. A tip."
    His face shone as if the sun had come up behind his light brown
eyes. "Oh, a tip! Yes, ma'am, thank you, ma'am. It's my first one
of those."
    "How many days have you been on the job, then?"
    "This is my second, and I best be moving on. Thanks again."
    "You are entirely welcome."
    Michael came forward as the bell jingled behind the delivery boy
letting himself out.
    "You were lurking at the other side of the arch, I take it," I
commented without turning around. There is a deep archway between
the office and the conference room-it is, in effect, a little
tunnel about three feet in depth. It is an architectural anomaly
that neither Michael nor I have accounted for, as the space between
the walls of what used to be parlor and dining room is not occupied
by any cabinet or closet.
    "I was listening to you flirt with the delivery boy."
    "Eavesdropping." I slit the