Part 31 (1/2)
CHAPTER XXI.
FROM HER.
Early the next morning Milford was leading a horse out of the barn when he met the Professor at the door. For a moment the scholar stood puffing the short breath of his haste; he had not picked his way, for his clothes were bespattered with mud, as if in his eagerness he had split the middle of the road.
”You're out early,” said Milford.
”But not early enough. One who has been deceived is always too late. Mr.
Milford, I have been grossly imposed upon by--by your generosity, sir.
That paper, the medical treatise. It fell out of your coat. I found it this morning. Can you explain?”
”Well, I haven't time just now,” said Milford, preparing to mount the horse. ”I've got to ride over to Hardy's to see about some calves. We'll talk about the treatise some other time.”
”No, sir,” the Professor replied, holding up his hand. ”We must talk about it now. You were to take that paper to the Doctor's wife. You brought me the money for it. You said that she liked it. And this morning it fell out of the pocket of your coat.”
”It does seem a little strange, I admit.”
”Strange! No, it is not strange. It is a generous outrage. I don't know what else to call it. I have been tricked, laughed at in the pocket of your treacherous coat.”
Milford mounted the horse. The Professor took hold of the bridle rein.
”You must not leave me thus. I have been left too long to simper and smirk in self-cajolery, with an inward swell to think that my pen had paid my insurance. You must explain.”
”All right, I'll tell you. I thought well of your paper, you understand, but when I got over to the house and faced the woman, my nerve failed me, and I couldn't ask her to buy it.”
”But you praised it,” said the Professor, with a gulp, still holding the bridle reins.
”Yes, and it was all right, but I lost my nerve. I had conjured up a sort of speech to make to her, but it slipped me, and then my nerve failed. It wasn't my fault, for I liked the paper all right enough, you understand.”
”But you brought the money. How about that?”
”Well, I had a few dollars, and I borrowed the rest from the old woman.
But that needn't worry you, for I paid her back when I sold my oats.
It's all right.”
”Needn't worry me! Why, you fail to catch the spirit of my distress.
Your act leaves me in debt. Why did you do it, Milford? Why?”
Milford looked down at him, his eyes half closed. ”You'd acknowledged yourself a thief. You said you'd stolen a dog.”
”Yes, I know,” the Professor agreed, glancing about. ”I know, but what of that?”
”Well, it made you my brother. And don't you think a man ought to help his brother in distress? Don't let it worry you. Don't think about it.
If you can ever pay it back, all right. If you can't, it's still all right, so there you are. Let me go.”
”Milford, in the idiom of the day, I am not a dead beat. I do not like the term, and I employ it only out of necessity. Beat is well enough, but dead is lacking in the significance of natural growth. I hope that you give me credit for seriousness. I am not a flippant man; I am innately solemn, knowing that the only progressive force in the human family is earnestness. But sometimes in the hour of my heaviest solemnity I may appear light; and why? In the hope that I may deceive my own heart into a few moments of forgetful levity. And you say that you are going over to look at some calves. Now that gives me an idea. I can fatten two calves very nicely--could keep them all winter and get a very good price for them in the spring. I abhor debt, but do you think you could make arrangements for me to get two, or three? Do you think you could?”
”The man I am to deal with is close and I don't believe he'll give credit.”