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Updated: June 23, 2025
Bartley was not very grateful for this generous defence; he thought that if Ricker had not been such an ass in the first place there would have been no trouble between them, and Witherby would not have had that handle against him. He was enjoying himself very well, and he felt entitled to the comparative rest which had not been of his seeking.
What man ever does? He proclaimed the splendour of her idea. But how was it to be realised? "Send a long prepaid telegram to Lord Overton, of course," said Viviette triumphantly. "You forget the nearest telegraph office is at Witherby, seven miles off." "But Dick and I are going for a drive. I'll make him go to Witherby and I'll send the telegram. Write it."
It made Witherby feel good, better perhaps than he had felt at any time since his talk with Clayton. "Well, now, what do you say, Mr. Hubbard? Can't we make some arrangement with you?" he asked, with a burst of frankness. "I guess you can," said Bartley. The fact that Witherby needed him was so plain that he did not care to practise any finesse about the matter.
He turned up the gas in his drop-light, and took the chair from which he had looked across the table at Halleck, when they talked there before. "It's the old subject," he said, with a sense of repetition in the situation. "I learn from Witherby that Hubbard has taken that money of yours out of the Events, and from what I hear elsewhere he is making ducks and drakes of it on election bets.
Witherby covered him with urbanities and praises of Bartley that ought to have delighted him as a father-in-law; but apparently the great man of the Events was but a strange variety of the type with which he was familiar in the despised country editors. He got on better with Mr. Atherton, who was of a man's profession.
Marcia hid her face in her arms on the table; the baby left off drumming with its spoon, and began to cry. Witherby was reading the Sunday edition of the Chronicle-Abstract, when Bartley got down to the Events office; and he cleared his throat with a premonitory cough as his assistant swung easily into the room. "Good morning, Mr. Hubbard," he said.
The Devil entered into her. "We must get to Witherby and back before lunch. You drive me over instead of Dick." They exchanged glances. Austin was young. He was in love with her. Dick had committed the unpardonable offence of being late. It would serve him right. "I'll come," said he, disappearing in search of cap and gloves. Viviette went into the hall and scribbled a note.
He said that he would not report the conflagration of a peanut-stand for a paper conducted on the principles I had developed to him. Now, that is no way to talk. It's absurd." "Perfectly." Bartley laughed his rich, caressing laugh, in which there was the insinuation of all worldly-wise contempt for Clayton and all worldly-wise sympathy with Witherby.
"Seen Witherby?" asked his friend. "He was round looking for you." "What does Witherby want with me?" asked Bartley, with a certain resentment. "Wants to give you the managing-editorship of the Events," said Ricker, jocosely. "Pshaw! Well, he knows where to find me, if he wants me very badly." "Perhaps he doesn't," suggested Ricker. "In that case, you'd better look him up."
"Ah, Mr. Hubbard! Kinney told us you were in here, and asked me to introduce myself while he looked after the horses. My name's Willett. These are my daughters; this is Mrs. Macallister, of Montreal; Mrs. Witherby, of Boston; Miss Witherby, and Mr. Witherby. You ought to know each other; Mr. Hubbard is the editor of the Equity Free Press. Mr. Witherby, of The Boston Events, Mr. Hubbard.
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