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Updated: June 29, 2025
Hill followed him out of the craft, and now Burton followed Hill. Clancy was last to leave the boat. He walked up toward the base of Sugarloaf Rock. "Boltwood," he called, "you stay there and take care of the boat. Burton, you and Hill come up here with me." The excitement that had claimed the passengers in Ike's boat had been missed by the other boats.
Not once did he stop to consider how glorious it would be to marry Claire or how terrifying it would be to marry Miss Boltwood. Three hours went by before he started up, bewildered, rubbed his eyes, picked at the chill bacon and altogether disgusting eggs, and rambled out into the street. Again he risked the scorn of conductors and jitney drivers.
"I don't know what's happened, or what's goin' on now," answered Boltwood, "so how can I talk?" "Just remember that, then. Here's a five-dollar gold piece for you. Do as I tell you and you'll be all right. Do something else, and you'll find yourself in more trouble than Burton is in." "I'm no fool, I guess," mumbled Boltwood, pouching the gold piece.
As he cried to Claire, by the fire, "Thought I'd never catch up with you," he was conscious that standing up, talking to Mr. Boltwood, was an old-young man, very suave, very unfriendly of eye. He had an Oxford-gray suit, unwrinkled cordovan shoes; a pert, insultingly well-tied blue bow tie, and a superior narrow pink bald spot. As he heard Jeff Saxton murmur, "Ah. Mr. Daggett!"
At twenty-five, when Claire Boltwood chose to come tearing through his life in a Gomez-Dep, Milt was the owner, manager, bookkeeper, wrecking crew, ignition expert, thoroughly competent bill-collector, and all but one of the working force of the Red Trail Garage.
We could have got him just as easily, Hiram, if you hadn't gone into the water." "I wanted to make sure, that was all." "Boltwood," called Clancy, "put us all ashore on the rocks at the foot of Old Sugarloaf. We'll bask in the sun, for a while, and I'll talk a little with Burton, We're old friends, you know," and here Clancy smiled.
Fresh air makes me so sleepy." "And Fooled you! Got through that mudhole, anyway! And he said Look! Fields stretch out so here, and not a tree except the willow-groves round those farmhouses. And he said 'Gee' so many times, and 'dinner' for the noon meal. And his nails No, I suppose he really is just a farm youngster." Mr. Boltwood did not answer.
He stood on the terrace wiping his forehead and, without the least struggle, finally and irretrievably admitting that he would never see Claire Boltwood or any of her friends again. Not never! He had received from Mrs. Gilson a note inviting him to share their box at the first night of a three-night Opera Season. He had spent half a day in trying to think of a courteously rude way of declining.
Henry B. Boltwood was decorously asleep in a chair in the observation car, and Claire, on the wide back platform, sat unmoving, apparently devoted to agriculture and mountain scenery. But it might have been noted that her hand clenched one of the wooden supports of her camp-stool, and that her hunched back did not move.
Daggett? how do you do, so good of you to come, do try the kidneys, they're usually quite decent, are the omelets warm, you might ring for some more, Gene, for heaven's sake give me some coffee, Miss Boltwood will be right down, Mr. Daggett, she told us how fortunate they were that they met you on the road, did you like the trip, how were the roads?" "Why, they were pretty good," said Milt.
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