“Shoo!” said Skim disdainfully.  “Thet ain’t no real pome, Peggy.”

“It makes rhymes, don’t it?  All but the las’ line.”

“Mebbe it does,” replied Skim, with assumption of superior wisdom; “but it don’t mean nuth’n’.”

“It would ef I got paid fer it,” observed Peggy.

Skim went home to his mother’s tiny “Emporium,” took some note paper out of stock, opened a new bottle of ink and sat down at the sitting room table to write his story.  The Widow Clark looked in and asked what he meant by “squanderin’ profits that way.”

“Shet up, mar.  Gi’ me elbow room,” said her dutiful son.  “I’m writin’ a fifty dollar story fer the Tribune.”

“Fifty dollars!”

“Thirty, anyhow; mebbe fifty,” replied Skim.  “What’s a good name fer a detective, mar?”

The widow sat down and wiped her damp hands on her apron, looking upon her hopeful with an expression of mingled awe and pride.

“Kin ye do it, Skim?” she asked softly.

“I s’pose I kin turn out one a day, by hard work,” he said confidently.  “At thirty a day, the lowes’ price, thet’s a hunderd ‘n’ eighty a week, seven hunderd ‘n’ twenty a month, or over eight thousan’ dollars a year.  I got it all figgered out.  It’s lucky fer me the nabobs is rich, or they couldn’t stan’ the strain.  Now, mar, ef ye want to see yer son a nabob hisself, some day, jes’ think up a good name fer a detective.”

“Sherholmes Locke,” she said after some reflection.

“No; this ‘ere story’s got ter be original.  I thought o’ callin’ him Suspectin’ Algernon.  Detectives is allus suspectin’ something.”

“Algernon’s high-toned,” mused the widow.  “Let it go at that, Skim.”

All that day and far into the evening he sat at his task, pausing now and then for inspiration, but most of the time diligently pushing his pen over the strongly lined note paper and hopelessly straying from the lines.  Meantime, Mrs. Clark walked around on tiptoe, so as not to disturb him, and was reluctant even to call him to his meals in the kitchen.  When Skim went to bed his story had got into an aggravating muddle, but during the next forenoon he managed to bring it to a triumphant ending.

“When I git used to the thing, mar,” he said, “I kin do one a day, easy.  I had to be pertickler over this one, it bein’ the first.”

The widow read the story carefully, guessing at the words that were hopelessly indistinct.

“My! but it’s a thriller, Skim,” she said with maternal enthusiasm; “but ye don’t say why he killed the girl.”

“That don’t matter, so long’s he did it.”

“The spellin’ don’t allus seem quite right,” she added doubtfully.

“I guess the spellin’s as good as the readin’ll be,” he retorted, with evident irritation.  “I bet I spell as well as any o’ the folks thet takes the paper.”

“And some words I can’t make out.”

“Oh, the edytur’ll fix that.  Say, air ye tryin’ to queer my story, mar?  Do ye set up to know more’n I do about story writin’?”