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"I reckon Joe needs a rest. He ain't lookin' right strong." An early supper, and the three men forgathered outside the cabin and smoked and talked until long after dark. Cheyenne had told Scott of the happenings since leaving Antelope, and jokingly he referred to San Andreas and Bartley's original plan of staying there awhile. Bartley nodded.
The Senator puffed, and tugged at the other boot. "No, ma'am. You're talking to me. There! Now go ahead and I'll listen." "Why didn't you discourage Mr. Bartley's idea of making such a journey? "I did, Nelly. I told him he was a dam' fool." Mrs. Senator Brown, who knew her husband's capabilities in dodging issues when he was cornered, both at home and abroad, peered at him over her glasses.
He kept on writing, and the philosopher stood over him with a humorous twinkle of enjoyment at Bartley's readiness. "Well, I'll allow it's old," he admitted. "So's Homer." "Yes; but you don't pretend that you wrote Homer." Kinney laughed mightily; then he leaned forward, and slapped Bartley on the shoulder with his newspaper. "Look here!" he exclaimed, "I like you!" "Oh, try some other tack!
The word, in which he exulted till it rang and echoed through the room, drew the eyes of all to the little group on the bench next the bar, where Marcia, heavily veiled in the black which she had worn ever since Bartley's disappearance, sat with Halleck and Olive.
They could not tell yet whether its eyes would be black like Marcia's, or blue like Bartley's; those long lashes had the sweep of hers, but its mop of hair, which made it look so odd and old, was more like his in color. "She will be a dark-eyed blonde," Bartley decided. "Is that nice?" asked Marcia. "With the telescope sight, they're warranted to kill at five hundred yards."
Monckton's eyes flashed fire, but he suppressed all appearance of excitement, and asked who Mr. Hope was. Mrs. Dawson brightened at the very name of her favorite, and said, "Who is Will Hope? Why, the cleverest man in Derbyshire, for one thing; but he is that Bartley's right-hand man, worse luck. He is inspector of the mine and factotum. He is the handiest man in England.
'You'd give me something as I should remember, she answered, smirking, the good little slavey. 'Shouldn't wonder if I did, assented Bob. Mr. Bartley's pressing hunger was satisfied with some bread and butter and a cup of tea.
"I guess you don't think Bartley's slow," she exclaimed, and hung over her father long enough to rub her lips against his bristly cheek. "By, mother," she said, over her shoulder, and went out of the room. She let her muff hang as far down in front of her as her arms would reach, in a stylish way, and moved with a little rhythmical tilt, as if to some inner music.
Bartley found that an empty barrel had been placed on each side of him, evidently to keep him from rolling off his bench. "Hello!" he said. "Much obliged to you, Kinney. I haven't been taken such good care of since I can remember. Been asleep, haven't I?" "About an hour," said Kinney, with a glance at the clock, and ignoring his agency in Bartley's comfort.
If he did not look in at Shackell's or Bartley's, or any of the dealers on the line, he was always to be found about half-past five at Cumberland Gate, from whence he would strike leisurely down the Park, and after coming to a long check at Rotten Row rails, from whence he would pass all the cavalry in the Park in review, he would wend his way back to the Bantam, much in the style he had come.
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