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Updated: May 23, 2025
"You're right, partly. But some of us sinners have our misgivings, and Witherby never has. You know he offered me your place?" "No, I didn't," said Bartley, astonished and not pleased. "I thought he might have told you. He made me inducements; but I was afraid of him: Witherby is the counting-room incarnate.
You would not like to have me do any work outside of the Events." "No," Witherby assented. "Would twenty-five be nearer the mark?" he inquired soberly. "It would be nearer, certainly," said Bartley. "But I guess you had better make it thirty." He kept a quiet face, but his heart throbbed.
Witherby had lately dismissed his managing editor for his neglect of the true interests of the paper as represented by the counting-room; and was managing the Events himself. He sat before a table strewn with newspapers and manuscripts; and as he looked up, Bartley saw that he did not recognize him. "How do you do, Mr. Witherby? I had the pleasure of meeting you the other day in Maine at Mr.
Witherby, finding the wife of her husband's assistant in Miss Kingsbury's house, conceived an awe of her, which Marcia would not have known how to abate if she had imagined it; and in a little while the Witherby family segregated themselves among the photograph albums and the bricabrac, from which Clara seemed to herself to be fruitlessly detaching them the whole evening.
He left Bartley standing where they had met. It was peculiarly unfortunate, for Bartley had occasion within that week to ask Ricker's advice, and he was debarred from doing so by this absurd displeasure. Since their recent perfect understanding, Witherby had slighted no opportunity to cement their friendship, and to attach Bartley more and more firmly to the Events.
But after due time for conviction no man enjoyed Bartley's irony more than Witherby when once he had mastered an instance of it. Sometimes it happened that Bartley found him chuckling over a perfectly serious paragraph, but he did not mind that; he enjoyed Witherby's mistake even more than his appreciation.
Bartley knew that this was Ricker's way of accepting, and he said nothing, but he answered his next question with easy joviality. "How are you making it with old Witherby?" "Oh, hand over hand! Witherby and I were formed for each other. By, by!" "No, hold on! Why don't you come to the club any more?" "We-e-ll! The club isn't what it used to be," said Bartley, confidentially. "Why, of course!
"Well, I suppose the more there is, the more you will get for it. Shall you put in about those people coming to see the camp?" "Yes, I think I can work that in so that old Witherby will like it. Something about a distinguished Boston newspaper proprietor and his refined and elegant ladies, as a sort of contrast to the rude life of the loggers." "I thought you didn't admire them a great deal."
Witherby looked at it, with the worry of a dull man who has assumed unintelligible duties. He had let the other papers "get ahead of him" on several important enterprises lately, and he would have been glad to retrieve himself; but he could not be sure that this was an enterprise.
Ah wont you take a chair?" "Thanks," said Bartley, non-committally; but he sat down in the chair which the other rose to offer him. Witherby fumbled about among the things on his desk before he resumed his own seat. "I hope you have been well since I saw you?" "Oh, yes, I'm always well. How have you been?"
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