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Updated: June 12, 2025
I was interested in watching Harlson's face. He was a trifle pale, despite his usual self-control, and was noting the figures carefully. Added precincts repeated the same story. Harlson would take up a return, glance at it, compare it with another, and then examine a dozen of them together, for once in his life he was taken unawares, and was at sea.
So had some power hurled Grant Harlson into the black waters, and he had not drowned, and had taken rank among strong swimmers. It is, as I have said, difficult to write intelligently of this portion of this man's life. I want to do him justice, for I have always cared for him; yet, from the conventional point of view, at least, nothing can excuse his lapse at this one time.
And one day Grant Harlson left the town, his face turned cityward. The country boy this later young man of the summer was no more. To fill his place among the mass of bipeds who conduct the affairs of the world so badly and so blunderingly, was but one added to the throng of strugglers in one of men's great permanent encampments.
Upon his return Harlson told of his summer not entirely wasted, and expressed the hope that he might have absorbed some trifle of the writer's style. The professor of English literature laughed. "Better have taken Carlyle's 'French Revolution' or any one of half a dozen books which might be named. Let me tell a little story.
Where the oxen had stepped in some soft place were now, at the beginning of the day, thin flakes of ice. Even in the depth of the clover-mow the change of temperature was manifest, and Harlson slept with a blanket close about him. The autumn had come briskly.
It was a moment or two before he clambered slowly to his feet. "Shall I hit you just once more?" was Harlson's query. The man did not answer. The woman stood looking on curiously, but saying nothing. Harlson waited for a time, then told his assailant to go away; and the man picked up his hat and stumbled out upon the street. The woman sat down again. It was some time before she spoke.
He had wholly loved but two things all his life her and nature and the three of them she, nature and he were here together! It was wonderful! And there in that preposterous covering of canvas, half hid in the forest's edge, was Jean Cor no, Jean Harlson, belonging to him all his away from all the world, just part of him, in this solitude! He wondered why he had deserved it.
I have tried to decide on what is right, and I will do it. Now, I want it settled with you. Here I am! Do you want to fight?" Woodell's face had been something worth seeing while Harlson was speaking. He had followed the words of his late antagonist closely. He grasped in a general way the intent expressed. There was a radiance on his rough features. "Do you really mean that?" "Of course I do.
The woman, I am afraid, was, before she became a mother, addicted to monkey tricks, even to the extent of bounding leopard-like upon the man from unexpected places, and the Ape was, in his early days, bred in a way barbaric. They had great times with the Ape. One day Grant Harlson had his business for the day concluded early.
He was different from her own lover; no better, of course, but he had lived another life, and could tell her many things. And Woodell, who expected to marry her, glowered a little. She did not care for that. Grant Harlson had not noticed it. But neither quoits nor Jenny Bierce sufficed at all times for forgetfulness.
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