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Updated: May 26, 2025
Overholt did not answer the boy at once, and when he spoke there was a queer little quaver in his voice. "We'll call it our little City of Hope," he said, "and perhaps we can 'go to work to play, as you call it, so hard that Hope will really come and live in the City." "Well," said Newton, "I never thought you'd ever care to see it!
The lamps burned steadily, for they held enough oil to last sixteen hours when the winter darkness is longest, and they had not been lighted till after supper. But all at once Overholt was aware of a little change in the colour of things, and he slowly rubbed his eyes and looked about him, and towards the window.
The really big ones are always trying to be practical, like Sir Isaac Newton when he ordered a good-sized hole to be cut in his barn door for the cat, and a little one next it for the kitten. But Newton Overholt did not at all resemble his great namesake. He was a practical young soul, and had not yet developed the American disease which consists in thinking of two things at the same time.
But then something happened; for Overholt was tormented by the vague consciousness of a coming idea, so that he had headaches and could not sleep at night. It flashed upon him at last one evening when Newton was in bed and he was sitting before his motor, wishing he had the thousand dollars which would surely complete it, even if he used the most expensive materials in the market.
"This isn't your day," he observed as he did so, and the remark was certainly addressed to the model of the town. He went into the other room and stood beside his father, looking down at his drawn face and damp forehead. "Say, father, really, isn't there anything I can do to help?" Overholt answered with an effort. "No, my boy, there's nothing, thank you.
"And they generally catch it afterwards too," he added. "It's natural." "I've 'caught it," Overholt answered. "You have too, my dear boy, though you didn't make the mistake that's not just." "Well, father, I don't know what we're going to do, but something has got to be done right away, and we've got to find out what it is." "Thank goodness you're not a girl!" cried Overholt fervently.
"Perhaps the business people in the City of Hope would be different from the bankers in New York," observed Overholt, thoughtfully. "I don't believe it, father," Newton answered in a sceptical tone. "If they were bankers they'd be rich, and you remember the sermon Sunday before last, about it's being easier for the camel to get through the rich man no, which is it? I forget.
John Henry Overholt was apparently wide awake, but he had been morally stunned that day; he was dreaming that he was going crazy, and he could not, for the life of him, tell whether he really felt any better after cooling his head in the basin than before, though it seemed immensely important to find out, just then.
The boy was paralysed with amazement, and for ten seconds he forgot that he was kneeling beside his father's fallen body on the floor; then he felt it against him and it was no longer quite still. Overholt groaned and turned upon his side as his senses slowly came back and his agony tortured him to life again. Instantly the boy bent over him. "Father! It's going! Wake up, father!
The old man, murmuring a mixture of apologies, assurances, and expostulations, went pathetically about the putting up of the mule, the setting away of the plough. Nobody knew when Pap Overholt began to be so called, nor when his wife had received the affectionate title of Aunt Cornelia. It was a naming that grew of itself.
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