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Like insurance policies, the contract was to expire at a certain hour. Sim Marchman came just before dinner, to which he was sent for by Mrs. Fluker, who had seen him as he rode into town. "Hello, Sim," said Mr. Pike as he took his seat opposite him. "You here? What's the news in the country? How's your health? How's crops?" "Jest mod'rate, Mr. Pike.
"I'll write out those recommendations for honours and awards before turning in," he said, a quarter of an hour later, searching through the box in which confidential papers were kept. "Now, what was it I wanted to know? oh, I remember. Ring up Drysdale, and ask him whether the corporal he put in is named Marchman or Marshman.
As for Marann, she was very sorry for Sim, and wished he had not brought these good things at all. Then Marann grew distant, and asked Sim the following question: "You know where Mr. Pike's gone, Mr. Marchman?" Now the fact was, and she knew it, that Marann Fluker had never before, not since she was born, addressed that boy as Mister. The visitor's face reddened and reddened.
Fluker, who had not indulged herself with a single holiday since they had been in town, left Marann in charge of the house, and rode forth, spending part of the day with Mrs. Marchman, Sim's mother. All were glad to see her, of course, and she returned smartly, freshened by the visit. That night she had a talk with Marann, and oh, how Marann did cry! The very last day came.
On as many as three different occasions Sim Marchman, as if he had lost all self-respect, or had not a particle of tact, brought in himself, instead of sending by a negro, a bucket of butter and a coop of spring chickens as a free gift to Mrs. Fluker. I do think, on my soul, that Mr. Matt Pike was much amused by such degradation however, he must say that they were all first-rate.
Here and everywhere about the house, in the dining-room, in the passage, at the foot of the stairs, he would joke with Marann about her country beau, as he styled poor Sim Marchman, and he would talk as though he was rather ashamed of Sim, and wanted Marann to string her bow for higher game. Brer Sam did manage well, not only the fields, but the yard.
One thing I do not like of his doin', an' that's the talkin' 'bout Sim Marchman to Marann, an' makin' game o' his country ways, as he call 'em. Sech as that ain't right." It may be as well to explain just here that Simeon Marchman, the person just named by Mrs.
He could have identified any other of the Vaucluse students by connections as slight Marchman by his whistling, tender, elusive sounds, flute notes sublimated, heard only when the night was late and the campus still; others by tricks of voice, fragments of laughter, by their footfalls, even, on the narrow brick walk below his study window. Such the easy proficiency of affection.
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