I am slow, slow! I have always wished since then that I had been quick enough to do what Fergus did. It was not that I did not love Nort——
When I looked around Fergus was gone. He had slipped out of the back door. He caught Nort at the gate, and grasped his hand so hard that Nort said it hurt him for a week afterward. He tried to say something, but his face worked so that he couldn't. Then he was suddenly ashamed of himself, and came running back into the office, his hair flying wildly. Tom, the cat, at that moment rising from his favourite spot near the stove, Fergus kicked at him vigorously—without hitting him.
Ed now began to stride about the office, head a little lifted, a bold look in the eye. He saw neither Fergus nor me. He was in a grand mood. I always imagined he must have felt at that moment something like Fitz-James when he met Roderick Dhu:
Come one, come all! this rock shall fly
From its firm base as soon as I.
He did not have long to wait. We heard the old Captain on the steps, thumping his cane, clearing his throat. I shall never forget how he looked when he came in at the door, his tall, soldierly figure, the long, shabby black coat, the thick silvery hair under the broad-brimmed hat, the beaming eye of him. Ever since the publication of his editorial on William J. Bryan, the Captain had been in great spirits.
"Nort!" he called, as he set down his cane.
No answer.
"Where's Nort?" he boomed. "Fergus, where's Nort? I want to show him my editorial on Theodore Roosevelt."
Ominous silence.
The old Captain looked up and about him. Fergus was busy at the cases.