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I sha'n't do that, of course, but one must begin where one can." "I suppose so," Witherbee answered slowly. The office was darkened to just above reading-light, and the consul's face was in the shadow. Evidently he had more to say, but he allowed a long silence to intervene before he went on. Simpson, imaging wholesale conversions, sat quietly; he was hardly aware of his surroundings.
The hard-working actors doubled in brass, and took tickets; and between acts sang about the moon in June, and sold Dr. Wintergreen's Surefire Tonic for Ills of the Heart, Lungs, Kidneys, and Bowels. They presented "Sunbonnet Nell: A Dramatic Comedy of the Ozarks," with J. Witherbee Boothby wringing the soul by his resonant "Yuh ain't done right by mah little gal, Mr.
With the black bass there were other men who were his equals, and perhaps one or two, like Judge Ward, who spent the greater part of his summer vacation sitting under an umbrella in a boat on Lake Marapaug, and Jags Witherbee, the village ne'er-do-weel, who were his superiors. But with the delicate, speckled, evasive trout he was easily first.
Small boys had fished for him, and described vividly the manner in which their hooks had been carried away, but that does not count. Jags Witherbee declared that he had struggled with him for nearly an hour, only to fall exhausted in the rapids below the pool while the trout executed a series of somersaults in the direction of Simsville, but that does not count.
Bunsen, his legs wide apart, kept his eyes on the sea, for he did not want to let Simpson see him smiling, and he was smiling. Witherbee, who had no emotions of any sort, pulled his moustache farther down and looked at the clergyman as though he were under glass a curiosity. "So you're going to convert the whole island?" he said. "I hope to make a beginning in the Lord's vineyard." "Humph!
If you have read certain other stories of mine you may remember that, upon a memorable occasion, Judge William Pitman Priest made a trip to New York and while there had dealings with a Mr. J. Hayden Witherbee, a promoter of gas and other hot-air propositions; and that during the course of his stay in the metropolis he made the acquaintance of one Malley, a Sun reporter.
Simpson, seeing clearly as men do before they die, flung himself toward her. The cripple's knife, thrust from below, went home between his ribs just as the mamaloi's blade crossed the throat of the sacrifice. "So I signed the death-certificate," Witherbee concluded. "Death at the hands of persons unknown." "And they'll call him a martyr," said Bunsen. "Who knows?" the consul responded gravely.
They're not like white men, you know." "Like children, you mean?" "Like some children. I'd hate to have them for nephews and nieces." "Why?" "We-ell" Witherbee, looking sidelong at Simpson, bit off the end of a cigar "a number of reasons. They're superstitious, treacherous, savage, cruel, and worst of all emotional. They've gone back. They've been going back for a hundred years.
He resolved to have nothing more to do with Witherbee. When he returned to the carpenter's house at about six that evening he entered the council of elders that he found there with the determination to place himself on an equality with them. It was to his credit that he accomplished this feat, but it was not surprising for the humility of his mind at least was genuine.
Witherbee did not speak; Simpson, still raging, left him, strode to the end of the pier, and stood there, leaning on a pile. His gust of emotion had left him; a not unfamiliar feeling of exaltation had taken its place. It is often so with the extreme Puritan type; control relaxed for however brief a moment sends their slow blood whirling, and leaves them light-headed as those who breathe thin air.
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