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But, because you've already got it, you owe all the more to the poor chaps who haven't." "Yes, sir." Opdyke's reply came with dutiful promptness, although it was plain to the professor that he had flown quite beyond the limits of the young mind before him. "What do you want me to do with him, though?" The professor's eyes twinkled, as he dragged himself back to the practical aspects of the case.
"Thet old diary-book was in ther chist not very long ago," he declared. "I went up thar an' got ther receipt out when I fared over ter Sam Opdyke's arraignin'. I tuck hit ter ther co'te-house an' put hit ter record thet day ther receipt, I means." "How did ye git inter ther chist without my unlockin' hit?" she inquired with a relief much more material than sentimental, and he laughed.
However, Opdyke's courage was better than her own. When she stood up to go away, he wished her a happy New Year with a nonchalance apparently quite genuine and free from envy. Nevertheless, something in his accent brought the stinging tears to Olive's eyes. Another year, such as the past eight months "Ditto to you, Reed!" she answered gayly. "I do hope it will find you back in the field again."
"How is Olive?" he inquired, quite in his ordinary tone. Instantly the doctor's face changed, lost its look of waiting strain, grew frankly worried. "Reed, I wish I knew," he said. "Is she ill?" Opdyke's voice sharpened. "No; she's all right, only something has upset her. Didn't she come here, yesterday? No?
In the meantime, those who had taken refuge in the Park found themselves in the lion's jaws. Carpenter had hardly rested from his march up Fifth Avenue to Mayor Opdyke's house, when he, too, received orders to hasten to the protection of the Tribune building.
Up to that time, Scott had liked the class but temperately; that is, although it had seemed to him a useless frill upon the garment of his education, he did not dislike it in the least, and he had made a fair showing in his recitations. Opdyke's coming into his division had changed all that. At first, Scott merely had been possessed by a fury of desire to shine before his idol's eyes.
Horrible Impaling of a Mart on an Iron Picket. Mystery attached to Him. Second Attack on Mayor Opdyke's House. Second Fight for the Wire Factory. Telegraphic Dispatches. Citizens Volunteering. Raid on the Negroes. They are hunted to Death. Savage Spectacle. Negroes seek Head-quarters of Police. Appearance and State of the City. Colonel Nugent's House sacked. Fight with the Mob in Third Avenue.
Then he looked up, with the ghost of his accustomed smile. "Well, what do you make out of it all, Whittenden? You've heard and seen the worst of me. Now what next? Is this losing my grip the final stage of the whole bad matter?" Whittenden flung up one lean hand to grasp the chairback above his head. Then he smoked in silence for a time, his clear eyes fixed on Opdyke's face. At last, he spoke.
Measured by the days of Opdyke, overflowing full of interests, it took the smallest possible share of time: a look of comprehension, a word of casual greeting, and, on rare occasions, a bit of a walk together when their ways chanced to coincide. Still more occasionally, a stray hour was spent at Mory's, or in Opdyke's room in Lawrence.
Were her manners, like the cut and colour of her garments, a thought too pronounced and noticeable? Was her voice a little bit too loud, her manner too assured? Or was it that those other girls beside her elbow were effete and colourless? Scott struggled to repress his doubts, while he watched the gay assurance with which Catie answered to Reed Opdyke's chaff.
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