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Updated: June 2, 2025
Henry was pumping out oil in prodigious quantities. He had bought a motor car and a fur coat. It was too hot most of the time for the coat, but the car stood now at rest across the road long and lovely much more of an aristocrat than the man who owned it. "Ambition for what?" O-liver demanded. Henry's eyes went to the pride of his heart. "Well, I should think you'd want a car."
The mountain stuck its nose into the clouds and was whitecapped. It was this view at the back which O-liver faced when he sat at his machine. When he rested he liked to fix his eyes on that white mountain. O-liver had acquired of late a fashion of looking up. There had been a time when he had kept his eyes on the ground. He did not care to remember that time.
O-liver had rather queer ideas as to the sacredness of certain things. Tommy Drew, who had a desk in the same office, read Vanity Fair and wanted to talk about it. "Say, I don't like that girl, O-liver." "What girl?" "Becky." "Why not?" "Well, she's a grafter. And her husband was a poor nut." "I'm afraid he was," said O-liver. "He oughta of dragged her round by the hair of her head."
What had he ever done to prove that he'd make good? They knew Tillotson. They didn't know Lee. Who was Lee anyhow? He flung the interrogation at them. "What do you know about Lee?" The pebble that he threw had widening circles. People began to ask themselves what, after all, they knew of O-liver.
Her little speech was over. She stepped down composedly from the box, folded her cloth and picked up her basket. She said "Thank you" to O-liver, "Come on" to Tommy, and walked from among them with her light step and free carriage; and they stared after her. O-liver sitting later in front of the post-office with his satellites round him found himself compelled to listen to praise of Jane.
He got Henry Bittinger to put up the money, with Tommy and his mother in charge. O-liver lived in the hotel in a suite of small rooms, and when Atwood Jones passed that way the four men dined together as O-liver's guests. "Some day we'll eat with you in Washington," was Atwood's continued prophecy. They always drank "To Jane." Now and then Atwood brought news of her.
"Oh, little great man," she said, tremulously, "your head touches the skies!" "No man," said O-liver Lee, "should earn more than fifteen dollars a week. After that he gets soft." "Soft nothing!" O-liver sat on a box in front of the post-office. He was lean and young and without a hat. His bare head was one of the things that made him unique.
"I told you not to come, O-liver." He laid the telegram before her. Fluffy Hair was dead! The yellow sheet lay between, defying them to speak so soon of happiness. "To-morrow," O-liver said, "I go to Washington. When will you come to me, Jane?" Her hand went out to him. Her breath was quick. "In time to hear your first speech, O-liver.
Jane was for him a sort of goddess woman. She was, he felt, infinitely above him. She knew a great deal that he didn't, about books and things like O-liver. She sewed for his mother, and that was the way he had met her. He would go over and sit on her front steps and talk. He felt that she treated him like a little dog that she wouldn't harm, but wouldn't miss if it went away.
But you mustn't blame him, Tommy, and now that we both know, everything is all right, isn't it?" "Yes," Tommy agreed; "if Tillotson doesn't get hold of it." For it had been decided that O-liver was to run against Tillotson in the next election, and beat him if he could. O-liver had told Jane about his marriage on the night before Tommy came to her. He had asked her to ride with him.
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