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Along that pleasant bar, with its shining brass scuppers, Bob and I consumed many beakers of well-chilled amber during that warm summer. His urbanolatrous soul pined for the city, and he used in those days to expound the doctrine that the suburbanite really has to go to town in order to get fresh air. In September, 1916, Holliday's health broke down.
Lying half-raised on one hand, waiting out the count, he was thinking how like an explosion the roar from the audience had been. How moblike and blood-hungry. How the crowd hated him! And Holliday was laughing down at him, leering. Double-crossed? Did Holliday think he was that credulous? But he had tested Holliday's strength and feared it more than ever.
Saying those words, he looked hard, for a moment, in young Holliday's face, and then led the way into the room. It was larger and cleaner than Arthur had expected it would be. The two beds stood parallel with each other, a space of about six feet intervening between them. They were both of the same medium size, and both had the same plain white curtains, made to draw, if necessary, all round them.
Pewee did not renew the quarrel with Jack perhaps from fear of the rawhide that hung in the blacksmith's shop, or of the master's ox-goad, or of Bob Holliday's fists, or perhaps from a hope of conciliating Jack and getting occasional help in his lessons. Jack was still excluded from the favorite game of "bull-pen."
Thérèse looked radiant, younger than Esther had yet seen her. Her grey eyes, rayed round with black lashes, shone like stars. There was a sort of cold purity about her that dazzled. "Ready?" Holliday's voice sounded as nonchalant as ever. Glancing at him, Esther felt amazement that he could accept all this supreme feast of a woman's beauty without so much as the flicker of an eyelash.
And now that he knew the answer he could put his mind on this fight. What round? The eighteenth? They'd lost count probably, but anyway it had gone far enough. He'd finish it now. He had hardly hit Holliday at all; he'd hit him now. Where was he? He groped, and then he found him; found him by the simple process of noting from which quarter Holliday's last blow came.
They were not malicious boys, but just mischievous, fun-loving boys little boys of ten or twelve rather thoughtless, being mainly bent on having a good time. They had a wide field of action: they ranged from Holliday's Hill on the north to the cave on the south, and over the fields and through all the woods between.
Mechanically she put up her hand and discovered a needle-like splinter of glass sticking into her face. She had not felt it before: it must have come from the electric-bulb which Holliday's revolver had shattered. There must be a good deal of blood on her cheek....
They fought, and your son was worsted. I think, sir, that for the credit of your house you had best be quiet over the matter. "Hush, sir," he went on sternly, seeing that the baronet was about to answer furiously. "I am an old man, but I will put up with bluster from no man." Colonel Holliday's repute as a swordsman was well known, and Sir William Brownlow swallowed his passion in silence.
Thus the hand of Robert C. Holliday was linked by the manacle of destiny to the hand of Newton B. Tarkington, and it is a quaint satisfaction to note that Mr. Holliday's first book was that volume "Booth Tarkington," one of the liveliest and soundest critical memoirs it has been our fortune to enjoy. Like all denizens of Indianapolis "Tarkingtonapolis," Mr.
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