“Do? Oh, I’m willing to do anything!”
Dr. Sevier turned his gaze slowly, with a shade of disappointment in it. Richling rallied to his defences.
“I think I could make a good book-keeper, or correspondent, or cashier, or any such”—
The Doctor interrupted, with the back of his head toward his listener, looking this time up the street, riverward:—
“Yes;—or a shoe,—or a barrel,—h-m-m?”
Richling bent forward with the frown of defective hearing, and the physician raised his voice:—
“Or a cart-wheel—or a coat?”
“I can make a living,” rejoined the other, with a needlessly resentful-heroic manner, that was lost, or seemed to be, on the physician.
“Richling,”—the Doctor suddenly faced around and fixed a kindly severe glance on him,—“why didn’t you bring letters?”
“Why,”—the young man stopped, looked at his feet, and distinctly blushed. “I think,” he stammered—“it seems to me”—he looked up with a faltering eye—“don’t you think—I think a man ought to be able to recommend himself.”