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Every one who has lived the American life must have produced them in great numbers. While youth lasts, they afford an excitement whose charm is hard to realize afterward. Bartley's correspondents were young ladies of his college town, where he had first begun to see something of social life in days which he now recognized as those of his green youth.
The old man sat chewing his broom straw in silence; but when Marcia left the room to get Bartley's photograph, so that Halleck might see the child's resemblance to him, her father looked at Halleck from under his beetling brows: "I don't think we need trouble the asylums much for Bartley Hubbard.
He dropped into a chair, his white head sunk upon his bosom, he sobbed and trembled, and for the first time showed his age. "What on earth is the matter?" said Mr. Bartley's voice, as cold as an icicle, at the door. Mary sprang toward him impetuously. "Oh, papa!" she cried, "Colonel Clifford is dying, and we don't know where Walter is; we can't know."
He took him to the top of the State House, and walked him all about the city, to show him its points of interest, and introduced him to such of his friends as they met, though the Squire's dresscoat, whether fully revealed by the removal of his surtout, or betraying itself below the skirt of the latter, was a trial to a fellow of Bartley's style. He went with his father-in-law to see Mr.
She did not say anything about Bartley's breakfast, and she would not think anything; the girl took the child into the kitchen with her, and kept it there all day. Olive Halleck came during the forenoon, and Marcia told her that Bartley had been unexpectedly called away. "To New York," she added, without knowing why. "Ben sailed from there to-day," said Olive sadly. "Yes," assented Marcia.
"There is quite an interesting article in yesterday's Chronicle-Abstract. Have you seen it?" "Yes," said Bartley. "What article?" "This Confessions of an Average American." Witherby held out the paper, where Bartley's article, vividly head-lined and sub-headed, filled half a page. "What is the reason we cannot have something of this kind?" "Well, I don't know," Bartley began.
I reckon that's where I got the idea of makin' up po'try, later." "I really beg your pardon," said Bartley. "The mescal must of told you." "I don't quite get that," said Bartley. "No? Well, you ain't the first. Josh and Filaree is the only ones that sabes me. Let's sit in this corner and watch the mescal work for a livin'." It was a hot night. Sweat prickled on Bartley's forehead. His nose itched.
"To-morrow morning will suit," said Bartley. "All right. If anybody comes to see the editor to-morrow morning, Marilla," said Kinney to the girl, "you tell 'em he's sick, and gone a-loggin', and won't be back till Saturday. Say," he added, laying his hand on Bartley's shoulder, "you aint foolin'?" "If I am," replied Bartley, "just mention it." "Good!" said Kinney. "To-morrow it is, then."
He didn't know just why he felt better. Yet he felt more than grateful to Little Jim. Nevertheless, Dorothy met Bartley's eyes frankly as he said farewell. "I hope you will find time to ride over to the ranch," she said. "I'm sure Aunt Jane would be glad to see you." "Thanks. Say, day after to-morrow?" "Oh, it doesn't matter. Aunt Jane is nearly always at home."
"I don't know about your mentioning it in your interview," said Lapham dubiously. "That's going into the interview, Mr. Lapham, if nothing else does. Got a wife myself, and I know just how you feel." It was in the dawn of Bartley's prosperity on the Boston Events, before his troubles with Marcia had seriously begun.
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