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Updated: June 17, 2025
You must get Howland to put you through a course of Pellerin." And as the young men, having taken leave of Winterman, retraced their way across the lawn, Wade continued to develop the theme of his brother's accomplishments. "I wish I could get Howland to take an interest in Winterman: this is the third Sunday he's chucked us.
Once more he was lost in wonder at Howland's miraculous faculty for always, as the naturalists said, being true to type. "So I'm afraid it's all up with his chance of writing. At least I can do no more," said Wade, discouraged. Bernald pressed him for farther details. "Does Winterman seem to mind much? Did you hear his version?" "His version?" "I mean what he said to Howland." "Why no.
He couldn't help feeling the man's force, as we do; and he might give him a pointer tell him what line to take. Anyhow, it would please Winterman, and take the edge off his disappointment. I saw that as soon as I proposed it." "Some one who's never heard of Pellerin?" Mrs.
Winterman, with his large deep laugh, shook out the smouldering sheets. "And I should have been a pensioner on Doctor Bob the Lord knows how much longer!" Bernald pulled himself together. "You've really got going again? The thing's actually getting into shape?" "This particular thing is in shape.
It seemed rather like a stage on which remarkable things might be enacted, like some shaggy moorland landscape dependent for form and expression on the clouds rolling over it, and the bursts of light between; and one of these flashed out in the smile with which Winterman, as if in answer to his companion's thought, said simply, as he turned to fill his pipe: "Now we'll talk."
It was so fantastic and yet so unanswerable that he burst into a sudden startled laugh. Winterman, at the same moment, brought his palm down with a sudden crash on the pile of manuscript covering the desk. "What's the matter?" Bernald gasped. "My match wasn't out. In another minute the destruction of the library of Alexandria would have been a trifle compared to what you'd have seen."
Beecher Bain, large, smiling, diffuse, reached out parenthetically from the incoming throng on her threshold to waylay Bernald with the question as he was about to move past her in the wake of his companion. "Oh, keep straight on, Mr. Winterman!" she interrupted herself to call after the latter. "Into the back drawing-room, please!
"Yes; the very day Howland got back from Kenosha I brought the manuscript to town, and got him to read it. And yesterday evening I nailed him, and dragged an answer out of him." "Then Howland hasn't seen Winterman yet?" "No. He said: 'Before you let him loose on me I'll go over the stuff, and see if it's at all worth while." Bernald drew a freer breath. "And he found it wasn't?"
"And you expect Wade ?" "Why, I gathered from our good Doctor that it's his trade. Doesn't he explain interpret?" "In his own domain which is Pellerinism." Winterman gazed out musingly upon the moon-touched dusk of waters. "And what is Pellerinism?" he asked. Bernald sprang to his feet with a cry. "Ah, I don't know but you're Pellerin!"
In the low-ceilinged bungalow Winterman had to grope for the lamp on his desk, and as its light struck up into his face Bernald's sense of the rareness of his opportunity increased. He couldn't have said why, for the face, with its ridged brows, its shabby greyish beard and blunt Socratic nose, made no direct appeal to the eye.
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