S. Behrman turned from Magnus, who at once resumed his seat and began again to sort his papers.
“Well, Presley,” said the railroad agent: “I guess I won't see you again.”
“I hope not,” answered the other.
“Tut, tut, Presley, you know you can't make me angry.”
He put on his hat of varnished straw and wiped his fat forehead with his handkerchief. Of late, he had grown fatter than ever, and the linen vest, stamped with a multitude of interlocked horseshoes, strained tight its imitation pearl buttons across the great protuberant stomach.
Presley looked at the man a moment before replying.
But a few weeks ago he could not thus have faced the great enemy of the farmers without a gust of blind rage blowing tempestuous through all his bones. Now, however, he found to his surprise that his fury had lapsed to a profound contempt, in which there was bitterness, but no truculence. He was tired, tired to death of the whole business.
“Yes,” he answered deliberately, “I am going away. You have ruined this place for me. I couldn't live here where I should have to see you, or the results of what you have done, whenever I stirred out of doors.”
“Nonsense, Presley,” answered the other, refusing to become angry. “That's foolishness, that kind of talk; though, of course, I understand how you feel. I guess it was you, wasn't it, who threw that bomb into my house?”
“It was.”