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"Is Jackson as much interested in the other world as he used to be?" "Spirits?" "Yes." "I guess he keeps it up with Mr. Whitwell. He don't say much about it at home. He keeps all the books, and helps mother run the house. She couldn't very well get along without him." "And where do you come in?"
Did I take you by surprise?" he asked of the company at large. "No, sir," said Whitwell. "Didn't surprise us any, if you are a fortnight ahead of time," he added, with a wink at the others. "Well, I took a notion I wouldn't wait for the cattle-ship, and I started back on a French boat. Thought I'd try it. They live well. But I hoped I should astonish you a little, too. I might as well waited."
It was in reference to this that Whitwell Elwin declared that Pope "displayed a complication of imposture, degradation, and effrontery which can only be paralleled in the lives of professional forgers and swindlers."
Whitwell." "Mr. Whit'ell!" said Mrs. Durgin, concentrating in her accent of his name the contempt she could not justly pour out on the others. "Oh," Jeff went on, "I did think that I could take hold with you, if you could bring yourself to let me off this last year at Harvard." "Jeff!" said his mother, reproachfully. "You know you don't mean that you'd give up your last year in college?"
We've had up some of them old philosophers lately. We've had up Socrates." "Is that so? It must be very interesting." Whitwell did not answer, and Westover saw his eye wander. He looked round. Several ladies were coming across the grass toward him from the hotel, lifting their skirts and tiptoeing through the dew. They called to him, "Good-morning, Mr.
"If I conclude to stay, will you? Jeff's goin' abroad." "I guess I stay," said Jombateeste. "Don't strain yourself, Jombateeste," said Jeff, with malevolent derision. "Not for you, Jeff Dorrgin," returned the Canuck. "I strain myself till I bust, if I want." Jeff sneered to Whitwell: "Well, then, the most important point is settled. Let me know about the minor details as soon as you can."
Whitwell came back an hour later and found them still at their books. He told them it was all arranged; Durgin was to give up the place to him in a week, and he was to surrender it again when Jeff came back in the spring. In the mean time things were to remain as they were; after he was gone, they could all go and live at Lion's Head if they chose. "We'll see," said Cynthia.
Whitwell stood at the foot of the flag-staff with one hand staying his person against it, like a figure posed in a photograph to verify proportions in the different features of a prospect. The heroine of the unhappy affair of the picnic could not forbear authorizing herself to invoke his opinion at a certain point of the debate, and "Mr.
One day, toward the very last, Durgin found himself pretty well fagged in the old pulp-mill clearing on the side of Lion's Head, which still belonged to Whitwell, and he sat down on a mouldering log there to rest.
Whitwell leaned back, bracing his knees against the table, which was one of his philosophic poses. "I have sometimes believed that Jeff Durgin was goin' to turn out a blackguard. He's got it in him. He's as like his gran'father as two peas, and he was an old devil. But you got to account in all these here heredity cases for counteractin' influences.
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