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Toward the shaven monk who trudged along with his cowl tilted back and the sweat washing down his fat jowls, the coal-burner was deeply reverent; to the gentleman he was abject; with the small farmer and the free mechanic he was cordial and gossipy; and when a slave passed by with a countenance respectfully lowered, this chap's nose was in the air he couldn't even see him.
"'Wal, I paddled away, the bear every now and then grinnin' at me, skinnin' his face till every tooth in his head stood right out, and grumblin' to himself in a way that seemed to say, 'I wonder if that chap's good to eat? I didn't offer any opinion on the subject; I didn't say a word to him, treatin' him all the time like a gentleman, but kept pullin' for the shore.
"Sweetie?" "Yes. Disgusting! 'Kid's' bad enough. But I thought you mightn't know any better. I draw the line at the others." "All right," said Ursus rather sulkily, sure that he was being made fun of now. "But when a chap's a girl's friend what is he to call her?" "'You' will do very well, if 'Miss Child' is beyond your vocabulary." "I don't call that bein' friends.
But if he meant to do it, now was the moment. Turning from the David Cox, he took out the torn letter. "I've had this." Her eyes widened, stared at him, and hardened. Soames handed her the letter. "It's torn, but you can read it." And he turned back to the David Cox a seapiece, of good tone but without movement enough. 'I wonder what that chap's doing at this moment? he thought.
"It's all right," he murmured; "I was afraid it was the cock." "Oh, it's too early for that," I said. "Why, it's only the middle of the night." "Oh, that doesn't make any difference to those cursed chickens," he replied bitterly. "They would just as soon crow in the middle of the night as at any other time sooner, if they thought it would spoil a chap's evening out.
How deliciously far away from hay was this chap's feeling for Mozart. With him I could feel sure of myself, of the way I was living for my art, of what my mother way back at the start had called the "fine things" in humanity. I remember the night we heard "Bohème" from the gallery of the Opéra Comique.
"I always feel grateful," said she, "to that Frenchman Voltaire or Talleyrand or Rochefoucauld or somebody who said language was invented to conceal our thoughts. That was what you meant, wasn't it?" "Precisely. I suppose Sir Torrens this chap's papa told the lady he married ..." "She was a Miss Abercrombie, I believe."
"Chap's dotty, I dare say. Talking about a plantation of apple trees now. For his old age that sort of thing. Be something new in a fortnight, though. Like him, of course, course!" Her ladyship closed upon my hand with a remarkable vigour of grip. "We owe it all to you," she said, again with dancing eyes. Then her eyes steadied queerly. "Maybe you won't be sorry." "Know I shan't."
I acknowledged this interesting communication by a sympathetic murmur. He waved his hand carelessly. "This might have utterly spoiled a chap's nerve for going aloft, you know utterly. He fell within two feet of me, cracking his head on a mooring-bitt. Never moved. Stone dead. Nice looking little fellow, he was. I had just been thinking we would be great chums.
"Well, I guess he was in better trim then," answered Cowan. "Besides, he's built well, you see most of his weight below his waist; when a chap's that way it's hard to pull him over. I remember last year in the game with Erstham I got through their tackle on a guard-back play, and " But Neil had already heard that story of heroic deeds, and so lent a deaf ear to Cowan's boasting.
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