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It might be some one to whom he had said a cutting or mortifying thing at their last encounter, but Bartley did not mind that; what he desired was commiseration, and he confidingly ignored the past in a trust that had rarely been abused.
"Anybody coming?" asked Marcia. "No, I don't see any one. But if there's any one in the woods yonder, they'd better wait till I get across. No horse in Equity can beat this colt to the turn-out." "Oh, well, look carefully, Bartley. If we met any one beyond the turn-out, I don't know what I should do," pleaded the girl. "I don't know what they would do," said Bartley.
Well, come on in and send her. You can catch Number Eight about Winslow." The cattleman forged ahead, and in the telegraph office, got the immediate attention of the operator, who took Bartley's message. The cattleman paid for it. "'Tain't the first time my size has cost me money," he said, as Bartley protested. "Now, let's go over and get another cigar. Then we can mill around and see Wishful.
The pinch always seemed to come in the matter of clothes, and then Marcia gave up whatever she wanted, and said she must make the old things do. Bartley hated this; in his position he must dress well, and, as there was nothing mean about him, he wished Marcia to dress well to.
Wishful promptly stood his broom against the wall, rolled down his sleeves, and stepped behind the counter. "I think I'll pay my bill," said Bartley. Wishful promptly named the amount. Bartley proffered a ten-dollar bill. Wishful searched in the till for change. He shook his head. "You got two dollars comin'," he stated. "I'll shake you for that two dollars," said Bartley.
But the fact is, our list is so large already, that we can't extend it, just now; we can't " Bartley smiled. "I don't want any exchange, Mr. Witherby. I'm out of the Free Press." "Ah!" said the city journalist, with relief. He added, in a leading tone: "Then " "I've come to offer you an article, an account of lumbering in our State. It's a little sketch that I've prepared from what I saw in Mr.
"She's as smart as time," continued Bartley. This was something concrete. The boy knew he should remember that comparison. "Bring you anything else?" he asked, admiring the young man's skill in getting the last flakes of the crust on his fork. The pie had now vanished. "Why, there isn't anything else, is there?"
It was generally inactive, but it was never absent, and the rapidity with which it awoke once or twice when she disapproved something which was done or said, made me understand why Mr. Markson, who always seemed pleasant and genial with any one else, was quite silent and guarded when his wife was with him. Pretty soon the people of Bartley knew all about the Marksons.
Mighty different stripe from that Montreal woman that cut up so that night." "Oh, Mrs. Macallister wasn't such a scamp, after all," said Bartley, with magnanimity. "Well, sir, you can say so. I ain't going to be too strict with a girl; but I like to see a married woman act like a married woman. Now, I don't think you'd catch Mrs.
"Well, sir," said Ricker, when he came to a pause, "you've lived a romance." "Yes," replied Kinney, looking at Bartley for his approval, "and I've always thought that, if I ever got run clean ashore, high and dry, I'd make a stagger to write it out and do something with it. Do you suppose I could?"
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