United States or Wallis and Futuna ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
In the end, Presley had been surprised to find that Shelgrim was still in. It was already very late, after six o'clock, and the other offices in the building were in the act of closing. Many of them were already deserted.
Presley, who had left his pony at the City livery stable, found himself caught in the current and carried slowly forward in its direction. His arms were pinioned to his sides by the press, the crush against his body was all but rib-cracking, he could hardly draw his breath.
"And for that reason," said Shelgrim, "it leaves nothing more to be said. You might just as well have kept quiet. There's only one best way to say anything. And what has made the picture of 'The Toilers' great is that the artist said in it the BEST that could be said on the subject." "I had never looked at it in just that light," observed Presley. He was confused, all at sea, embarrassed.
A few miles to the south he could just make out the line of wire fence that separated it from the third division; and to the north, seen faint and blue through the haze and shimmer of the noon sun, a long file of telegraph poles showed the line of the railroad and marked Derrick's northeast boundary. The road over which Presley was travelling ran almost diametrically straight.
"Yes, sir; we are going that way," politely replied a stripling, who stepped forward, followed by another youth with a law book under his arm. "This is Harry Brackenridge, the judge's son." "Surely? and your name is ?" "Morgan Neville." "Son of Colonel Presley Neville?" "Yes, sir." "Indeed! The particular friend of Lafayette." Young Neville blushed with proud pleasure.
He's got an option on five hundred acres just back of the town here. He says there is going to be money in hops. I don't know; may be I'll go in with him." "Why, what's the matter with railroading?" Dyke drew a couple of puffs on his pipe, and fixed Presley with a glance. "There's this the matter with it," he said; "I'm fired." "Fired! You!" exclaimed Presley, turning abruptly toward him.
Derrick heard him continue: "Well, I suppose you know what you're talking about, Pres. Must have written invites, hey?" "Of course." "Typewritten?" "Why, what an ass you are, Buck," observed Presley calmly. "Before you get through with it, you will probably insult three-fourths of the people you intend to invite, and have about a hundred quarrels on your hands, and a lawsuit or two."
There remained in the harness room besides Vanamee and Presley Magnus Derrick, Annixter, old Broderson Harran, Garnett from the Ruby rancho, Keast from the ranch of the same name, Gethings of the San Pablo, Chattern of the Bonanza, about a score of others, ranchers from various parts of the county, and, last of all, Dabney, ignored, silent, to whom nobody spoke and who, as yet, had not uttered a word.
"A little turn through the country, to get the kinks out of the muscles," Presley answered. "I go up into the Quien Sabe, into the high country beyond the Mission." "Ah, the Quien Sabe rancho. The sheep are grazing there this week."
It was late, and after the lamp-heated air of the dining-room, the coolness of the night was delicious, and its vast silence, after the noise and fury of the committee meeting, descended from the stars like a benediction. Presley stepped to the edge of the porch, looking off to southward.
Word Of The Day