“But you can understand,” interrupted Mr. Sprudell, with a gesture of depreciation, “how a man feels to seem to”—he all but achieved a blush—“to toot his own horn.”
“I can understand your reluctance perfectly” Miss Dunbar admitted sympathetically, and it was then he noticed how low and pleasant her voice was. She felt that she did understand perfectly—she had a notion that nothing short of total paralysis of the vocal cords would stop him after he had gone through the “modest hero’s” usual preamble.
“But,” she urged, “there is so much crime and cowardice, so many dreadful things, printed, that I think stories of self-sacrifice and brave deeds like yours should be given the widest publicity—a kind of antidote—you know what I mean?”
“Exactly,” Mr. Sprudell acquiesced eagerly. “Moral effect upon the youth of the land. Establishes standards of conduct, raises high ideals in the mind of the reader. Of course, looking at it from that point of view——” Obviously Mr. Sprudell was weakening.
“That’s the view you must take of it,” insisted Miss Dunbar sweetly.
Mr. Sprudell regarded his toe. Charming as she was, he wondered if she could do the interview—him—justice. A hint of his interesting personality would make an effective preface, he thought, and a short sketch of his childhood culminating in his successful business career.
“Out there in the silences, where the peaks pierce the blue——” began Mr. Sprudell dreamily.
“Where?” Miss Dunbar felt for a pencil.
“Er—Bitter Root Mountains.” The business-like question and tone disconcerted him slightly.
Mr. Sprudell backed up and started again: