noon
He used to show me the books he was keepin ' , and the writin ' was as reg ` lar as if it 'd been done on a job press . `` You 're a wonder , you are , Sweetie , '' says I ; `` but some day your hand is going to joggle , and there 'll be a blot on them pages , and then you 'll die of heart disease . '' Miss Allen , the typewriter fairy , was a good deal of a frost . She was one of the kind that would blow her lunch money on havin ' her hair done like some actress , and worry through the week on an apple and two pieces of fudge at noon . I never had much use for her . She called me just Boy , as though I wa 'n' t hardly human at all . She 'd sit and pat that hair of hers by the hour , feelin ' to see if all the diff'rent waves and bunches was still there .