"Paper-weights," observed Patty, sucking an injured thumb, "were
evidently not made for driving in tacks. I wish I had a
hammer."
This remark called forth no response, and Patty peered down from
the top of the step-ladder at her roommate, who was sitting on the
floor dragging sofa-pillows and curtains from a dry-goods box.
"Priscilla," she begged, "you aren't doing anything useful. Go
down and ask Peters for a hammer."
Priscilla rose reluctantly. "I dare say fifty girls have already
been after a hammer."
"Oh, he has a private one in his back pocket. Borrow that. And,
Pris," -- Patty called after her over the transom, -- "just tell
him to send up a man to take that closet door off its hinges."
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