“I would try not to mind their savageness, Richling,” said the little preacher, slowly. “The best of us are only savages hid under a harness. If we’re not, we’ve somehow made a loss.” Richling looked at him with amused astonishment, but he persisted. “I’m in earnest! We’ve had something refined out of us that we shouldn’t have parted with. Now, there’s Mrs. Reisen. I like her. She’s a good woman. If the savage can stand you, why can’t you stand the savage?”
“Yes, true enough. Yet—well, I must get out of this, anyway.”
The little man clapped him on the shoulder.
“Climb out. See here, you Milwaukee man,”—he pushed Richling playfully,—“what are you doing with these Southern notions of ours about the ‘yoke of menial service,’ anyhow?”
“I was not born in Milwaukee,” said Richling.
“And you’ll not die with these notions, either,” retorted the other. “Look here, I am going. Good-by. You’ve got to get rid of them, you know, before your wife comes. I’m glad you are not going to send for her now.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Oh, you don’t know what you’d do,” said Richling.
The little preacher eyed him steadily for a moment, and then slowly returned to where he still sat holding his knee.