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Updated: May 3, 2025
Queed got up, and began strolling about the floor. In his mind was what Sharlee Weyland had said to him two hours before: "All the bitterness nowadays comes from the non-combatants, the camp-followers, the sutlers, and the cowards." Under which of these heads did his friend, the old professor, fall?... Why had he ever thought of Nicolovius as, perhaps, a broken Union officer?
His shelter, after all, was too small; once her glance turned that way, once her mind started upon conjectures, discovery had been inevitable. "Oh!" she cried, in a choked voice.... "It is Professor Nicolovius!" He looked at her steadily; no change passed over his face. When all was said, he was glad to have the whole truth out; and he knew the secret to be as safe with her as with himself.
In half an hour, when the sting they called this conflagration a sting! was beginning to get endurable and the pencil to move steadily, the door opened and in strode Professor Nicolovius; he, it seemed, wanted matches. Why under heaven, if a man wanted matches, couldn't he buy a thousand boxes and store them in piles in his room?
Last came the mysterious counsel to make friends and to like people, the particular friends and people intended being consolidated, he could understand now, in the person of old Nicolovius. And that message out of the unknown had had its effect: Queed could see that now, at any rate. His father clearly had been satisfied with the result; he appeared as his father no more.
In five minutes more, he put away his manuscript, picked up his watch, and strolled back into the sitting-room. Nicolovius was sitting where he had left him, except that now he was not reading but merely staring out of the window. He glanced around with a look of pleased surprise and welcome. "Ah-h! Did genius fail to burn?" he asked, employing a bromidic phrase which Queed particularly detested.
"Upon my word, I don't blame you for saying that. The gross communism of a boarding-house ... it does gall one at times! So far as I am concerned, I relieve you of it at once. Good-night." The afternoon before Nicolovius had happened to walk part of the way downtown with Mr. Queed, and had been favored with a fair amount of his stately conversation.
"You find this a fairly pleasant place to sit of an evening, I daresay!" he purred, presently. The back of the young man's head was uncompromisingly stern. "I might as well try to write in the middle of Centre Street." "So?" said Nicolovius, not catching his drift. "I should have thought that " "The interruptions," said Queed, "are constant." The old professor laughed.
You show your wisdom, at any rate, in giving as little of your valuable time as possible to our charming supper-table." "That hardly argues any Solomonic wisdom, I fancy." "You're in the hands of the Philistines here, Mr. Queed," said Nicolovius, snapping his final button. "May I say that I have read some of your editorials in the Post with ah pleasure and profit?
In two hours, a trained nurse was sitting by the bed as though she had been there always. The doctor called it a "stroke," superinduced by a "shock." He said that Professor Nicolovius might live for a week, or a year, but was hardly likely to speak again on this side the dark river that runs round the world. Sharlee Weyland reads the Morning Post; of Rev. Mr.
Do you wonder that I think old-soldierism is the meanest profession the Lord ever suffered to thrive? I tell you Baal and Moloch never took such toll of their idolaters as these shabby old gods of the gray shirt." "Professor Nicolovius," said Queed, with a slow smile, "where on earth do you exhume your ideas of Southern history?" "Observation, my dear boy!
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