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The woman ahead of her was flourishing a dainty, embroidered handkerchief, and she wondered idly if it had come from her counter at Torrey's. If so, why was it not a little white flag of truce that gave her a right to say "How do you do?" to the woman? The Talentless One suddenly felt a little lonely. "Ticket to Placid Pond, please," she said, when her turn came.
He saw it all, before he was half done; he did not need Torrey's ejaculated summary: "The swindling scoundrel!" to confirm him. "You signed the note?" said the judge. "Yes," replied Arthur. He laughed with the frankness of self-derision that augurs so well for a man's teachableness. "He must have guessed," continued the judge, "that a contest is useless."
In the German quarter, to the north, one felt a sort of ornamental bleakness if the expression may be permitted: the tenements here were clean and not too crowded, the scroll-work on their superimposed porches, like that decorating the Turnverein and the stem Lutheran Church, was eloquent of a Teutonic inheritance: The Belgians were to the west, beyond the base-ball park and the car barns, their grey houses scattered among new streets beside the scarred and frowning face of Torrey's hill.
Nor could they stop in midair. How in the world could they effect the hapless flyer's rescue? John circled at reduced speed while all of their minds were busy trying to work out the problem. In the meantime Torrey's frantic pleadings for them not to go away and leave him to his fate filled their ears. It was a trying, nerve-racking situation. Bob Giddings struck upon the first idea.
Professor Gurney was one of the leading reformers, and had tried his hand on his own department of History. The two full Professors of History Torrey and Gurney, charming men both could not cover the ground. Between Gurney's classical courses and Torrey's modern ones, lay a gap of a thousand years, which Adams was expected to fill.
In the German quarter, to the north, one felt a sort of ornamental bleakness if the expression may be permitted: the tenements here were clean and not too crowded, the scroll-work on their superimposed porches, like that decorating the Turnverein and the stem Lutheran Church, was eloquent of a Teutonic inheritance: The Belgians were to the west, beyond the base-ball park and the car barns, their grey houses scattered among new streets beside the scarred and frowning face of Torrey's hill.
She made a quick gesture of repulsion. "Women can't go to Torrey's," she said. "It's too filthy. Besides I'll take in the women, if there aren't too many and I can pick up a buckboard in Manzanita." He nodded. "That'll be better, if any come in. Give me their names, won't you? I have to keep track of them, you know."
There are no bounds to the loyalty with which mankind clings to a well-established jest, there is no limit to the number of times a tale will bear retelling. Occasionally we give it a fresh setting, adorn it with fresh accessories, and present it as new-born to the world; but this is only another indication of our affectionate tenacity. Torrey's evangelistic services.
It may take her a month to read some little volume of two or three hundred pages such a volume as Bradford Torrey's "Rambler's Lease," or Dr.
Rather than cling to the straps of a crowded car they chose to walk, following the familiar route of the trolley past the car barns and the base-ball park to the bare field under the seared face of Torrey's Hill, where circuses were wont to settle.
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