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He loaned her money, which he did not expect to be repaid, and exerted himself to find a publisher for her, recollecting perhaps the vows he had made to the gods in the days of his own obscurity. He mentions in his diary calling on the Rutledges for this purpose where he saw Charles Reade, a tall, strong-looking man, just leaving the office.
"Now, I've got you!" cried Tom exultantly, making a bound that should have carried his hands to the throat of the prowler. But the other, like a flash, went on the defensive. Tom felt himself parried, then clutched at. The next instant the prowler had the young engineer in a tackle that carried Tom Reade back to the good old high school days at home.
Do you fellows remember when we were happy if we could buy a ten-cent plate and then get by ourselves with six spoons to dip into the ice cream? Come on! Let's get good and square for those days." "Yes; it is hot here on this corner," assented Dick. "Hot?" demanded Reade impatiently. "Humph! Harry and I were just regretting that we hadn't worn our top coats today.
"Mr. Reade!" called a husky-toned voice, "won't you order your men to let me through to see you? I want to talk with you about tonight's outrage." Tom recognized the speaker as a man named Beasley, one of Paloma's most upright and courageous citizens. "Let Mr. Beasley through," Tom called. "Don't block the streets, men. Remember, we've no right to do that."
"Oh, not so fearfully rotten," replied Reade complacently. "Harry and I have had to dig up a lot of new math. since we've taken on with an engineering corps in the field. Harry, trot up some of the kind of mathematics that we have to use." "Wait a moment," put in Dick. "Greg, sketch out an easy one from the math. problems we have to dig into at West Point.
When I remembered the deliberate and impertinent moralizing of Thackeray, the clumsy exegesis of George Eliot, the knowing nods and winks of Charles Reade, the stage-carpentering and limelighting of Dickens, even the fine and important analysis of Hawthorne, it was with a joyful astonishment that I realized the great art of Tourguenief.
"We haven't been doing anything nothing wrong, anyway," declared Dan virtuously. "We won't know the answer until we've seen Mr. Ripley," declared Dick. "We'll have to go around there after dinner to-day." "Why not go now?" proposed Tom Reade. "We haven't anything special to do with our time." "You fellows haven't much imagination, have you?" laughed Dave, his eyes twinkling mysteriously.
The sound that had started the crowd to cheering was repeated again. Too-oo-oo-oot! "It's the train!" cried Reade joyously. "It can't be more than two or three miles below here, either. It will get through on time!" With nine minutes to spare, the train rolled into the station at Lineville.
It appears it was scarce safe to leave Paris for England. Charles Reade, with keen dramatic gusto, had just smuggled himself out of that city in the bottom of a cab.
"We can get over the ground now," said Dick. "Let's go out and look at these animals." They counted eight dead cows, their unwieldy carcasses lying motionless on the burned grass. "Probably killed by the hot air that they drew into their lungs," commented Tom Reade. "We killed the poor beasts," said Danny Grin, with a catch in his breath. "Perhaps we did," Dick admitted.
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