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Updated: May 8, 2025
The postmaster predicted they would take to "dope." Then there was to be a sap-boiling over on the western mountain, to-morrow night, at old man Entriken's.... Everybody had been invited; if the weather was ugly it would take place the first clear spell. Sap-boilings, Gordon knew, held late in spring in the maple groves, lasted all night.
He heard approaching footsteps, and, hastily crumpling the paper and small box into a compact unit, he flung it into a corner of the wardrobe, behind a heap of linen. It was comparatively a short distance to the elder Entriken's farm, and, rather than invent a laborious explanation of the horse's absence all night, Gordon walked.
The papers before him, so painfully comprehended, with such a determination of justice, were but the visible marks of the futility, the waste, of his dreaming. He sank heavily into the chair before his table. He recalled the younger Entriken's smooth lies, the debauchery of his money by the Nickles; William Vibard's accordions mocked him again ... all, all, had been in vain, worthless.
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