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Updated: May 9, 2025
He smiled at the flame in his reverie, and the boy examined, with clandestine minuteness, the set and pattern of his trousers, with glances of reference and comparison to his own. There were many things about his relations with Marcia Gaylord which were calculated to give Bartley satisfaction.
In fact he already had the extra work done. It was something that he felt he had the right to sell outside of the Events, and he carried his manuscript to Ricker and offered it to him for his Sunday edition. Ricker read the title and ran his eye down the first slip, and then glanced quickly at Hubbard. "You don't mean it?" "Yes I do," said Bartley. "Why not?"
Hilda smiled up at him beautifully and put her hand on his sleeve. "Oh, Bartley! Did you write to me? Why didn't you telephone me to let me know that you had? Then I wouldn't have come." Alexander slipped his arm about her. "I didn't know it before, Hilda, on my honor I didn't, but I believe it was because, deep down in me somewhere, I was hoping I might drive you to do just this.
My daughter is not old enough to marry, and I object to long engagements. Everything, therefore, points to delay, and on this I must insist." Bartley having taken this moderate ground, remained immovable. He promised to encourage no other suitor; but in return he said he had a right to demand that Walter would not disturb his daughter's peace of mind until the prospect was clearer.
"We want you to come and take tea with us this evening," Olive began. "Oh, I can't," Marcia broke in. "I mustn't be away when Bartley gets back."
You'll like Wishful. He's different." They strode down the street and stopped in at a saloon where the cattleman called for cigars. Bartley noticed that the proprietor of the place addressed the big cattleman as "Senator." "This here is a dry climate, and a cigar burns up right quick, if you don't moisten it a little," said the cattleman. "I 'most always moisten mine." Bartley grinned.
His other pockets nothing. The detective patted his breast and examined his stockings nothing. "Try the bag," said Monckton. Then the poor fellow trembled again. The detective searched the bag nothing. He took the overcoat and turned the pockets out nothing. Bartley looked surprised. Monckton still more so.
However, she had exacted a pledge, which he had freely given, and, returning to the academy, he felt that he was himself once more. His step was elastic, his heart was light, and he whistled a lively strain. That evening he had a long talk with Bart. "Come, Bartley," urged Frank, "drop this card-playing, and give attention to your studies."
Bartley leaned toward her. "Dorothy, will you help me make that home, here in the valley, and be my comrade on the trails?" "Hadn't you better ask Aunt Jane?" said Dorothy softly, yet with a touch of humor. "Do you mean it?" Bartley's voice was boyishly enthusiastic, like the voice of a chum, a hearty comrade. "But how about your own folks?"
That last was improvised, wasn't it?" "Nope. Just naturalized. I make 'em up when I'm ridin' along, to kind of fit into the scenery. Impervisin' gets my wind." "Well, if you are singing when we finish, you're a wonder," stated Bartley. "Oh, I'm a wonder, all right! And mebby I don't feel like a plumb fool, footin' it into Steve's ranch with no hosses and no bed-roll and no reputation.
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