“Been gone two minutes,” he remarked, with a peaceable yawn.
Harkless stamped his foot on the cement flags; then he stood stock still, gazing at the empty tracks; but Meredith turned to him, smiling.
“Won't it keep?” he asked.
“Yes, it will keep,” John answered. “Part of it may have to keep till election day, but some of it I will settle before night. And that,” he cried, between his teeth, “and that is the part of it in regard to young Mr. Fisbee!”
“Oh, it's about H. Fisbee, is it?”
“Yes, it's H. Fisbee.”
“Well, we might as well go up and see what the doctor thinks of you; there's no train.”
“I don't want to see a doctor again, ever—as long as I live. I'm as well as anybody.”
Tom burst out laughing, and clapped his companion lightly on the shoulder, his eyes dancing with pleasure.
“Upon my soul,” he cried, “I believe you are! It's against all my tradition, and I see I am the gull of poetry; for I've always believed it to be beyond question that this sort of miracle was wrought, not by rage, but by the tenderer senti—” Tom checked himself. “Well, let's take a drive.”