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Updated: June 26, 2025
There's not so much going on in the way of public amusements, and so people make more of one another. There are not so many concerts, theatres, operas " "Oh, they've got a splendid opera-house in Moffitt. It's just grand," said Miss Mela. "Have you been to the opera here, this winter?" Mrs. March asked of the elder girl.
Horn, in the same polite murmur she had used with Christine; but she said nothing to either sister about any future meeting. They were apparently not troubled. Mela said over her shoulder to the student of human nature, "The next time I see you I'll give it to you for what you said about Moffitt."
He came into that fellow's one day with a plan for cutting up the eighty acres he'd kept into town lots; and he'd got it all plotted out so-well, and had so many practical ideas about it, that the fellow was astonished. He went right in with him, as far as Dryfoos would let him, and glad of the chance; and they were working the thing for all it was worth when I struck Moffitt.
Beaton gloomily refused, and she kept herself from asking the student of human nature, till she had got him into her carriage, "What is Moffitt, and what did you say about it?" "Now you see, Margaret," said Mrs. Horn, with bated triumph, when the people were all gone. "Yes, I see," the girl consented. "From one point of view, of course it's been a failure.
Why, there were some things about it that made you think what a nice kind of world this would be if people ever took hold together, instead of each fellow fighting it out on his own hook, and devil take the hindmost. They made up their minds at Moffitt that if they wanted their town to grow they'd got to keep their gas public property.
"I'm just middlin'," Mrs. Dryfoos replied. "I ain't never so well, nowadays. I tell fawther I don't believe it agrees with me very well here, but he says I'll git used to it. He's away now, out at Moffitt," she said to March, and wavered on foot a moment before she sank into a chair.
Fulkerson told March the morning after Dryfoos returned that he had not only not pulled out at Moffitt, but had gone in deeper, ten times deeper than ever. He was tickled to death with 'Every Other Week' so far as it had gone, and was anxious to pay his respects to the editor.
He liked to philosophize the case with March, to recall Dryfoos as he was when he first met him still somewhat in the sap, at Moffitt, and to study the processes by which he imagined him to have dried into the hardened speculator, without even the pretence to any advantage but his own in his ventures.
"Well, you won't see any stumps now. All that country out around Moffitt is just as smooth as a checker-board, and looks as old as England. You know how we used to burn the stumps out; and then somebody invented a stump-extractor, and we pulled them out with a yoke of oxen.
I believe in Moffitt. We-e-e-ll!" drawled Fulkerson, with a long breath, "that's where I met old Dryfoos." "Oh yes! Dryfoos," said March. He observed that the waiter had brought the old one-handed German a towering glass of beer. "Yes," Fulkerson laughed. "We've got round to Dryfoos again. I thought I could cut a long story short, but I seem to be cutting a short story long.
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