She was one of those dulcet-toned, tawny peroxides, an houri, for whom the synonym is “havoc.” Chicago spoke in her every tone and gesture. Her movements were meteoric. Her eyes were X-rays. Her smile was sheet-lightning. She was alert, trim and tailor-made. Her very presence breathed the richness and aroma of her stock-yards training. The Spirit of Chicago, “I WILL,” pulsed through her veins. “Push and Pull” was her motto. “Get there” was her creed. Whoever is familiar with the fatal fascinations of a Chicago Typewriter can gauge the gait of the Kankakee pulse when Miss Imogene Silesia Sheets, late of the great packing house of Harmor & Co., was precipitated into the midst of that suburban society. The advent of this loveliest of her Type was brought about through the courteous solicitations and higher salary offered by Slaughter & Steers, a rival firm of the great hog magnate of Chicago. From the very multiplicity of her attractions and accomplishments, Miss Sheets was indescribable. Life in Chicago is of itself an education, and our heroine was rich in the accumulation of her experiences. Her years of service in the greatest pork mart of the world had developed a keen discrimination as to the relative coincidences and differences among hogs and men. She was never deceived as to either. She valued each after his kind, in his own place and for his own proper purposes, as becomes a broadminded woman. Miss Sheets’ accomplishments ranged from office to drawing room. She pounded the typewriter and the piano with equal facility, and it was said that she rendered her stenographic notes in rag-time rhythm. Within a week of her arrival, Mrs. Astor’s boarding house became a social center, and Mrs. Astor appreciated a guest who at the same time became a social feature and paid in advance. Before a month had elapsed this artless girl had completely won her hostess’ heart, and as they nibbled nuts and nougats at Imogene’s expense, that unsuspecting lady had disclosed to Miss Sheets about all she knew of the “Eligible List” of Kankakee. From this time forward, as if by intuition, the lovely Typewriter seemed to know that she preferred Bill Vanderhook’s attentions. As for Bill, he had been victimized from the start. Three times a day he walked an extra mile to pass her boarding house or place of business. He trod the air. He jollied every customer, and set up the soda water recklessly. He beamed on the very bottles behind the counter. He racked his brain and rifled his Father’s show-cases to do her homage. “Be mine, Sweet Thing,” he implored, the third Sunday after their introduction. This he said as they sat in his new, red automobile, four miles from town, while they waited for a gasoline man. But the maiden demurred. “Oh, Mr. You’ve got sand in your gear box,” she said shyly; then she smiled alluringly and purred softly. The brim of her cartwheel hat grated along his Derby, and they drew as close as fashion permitted.