“Hi! Mistoo Itchlin,” quoth Narcisse, passing them like an arrow, on his way to the paper offices.
“He’s happy,” said Richling.
“Well, then, he’s the only happy man I know of in New Orleans to-day,” said the little rector, jerking his head and drawing a sigh through his teeth.
“No,” said Richling, “I’m another. You see this letter.” He showed it with the direction turned down. “I’m going now to mail it. When my wife gets it she starts.”
The preacher glanced quickly into his face. Richling met his gaze with eyes that danced with suppressed joy. The two friends attracted no attention from those whom they passed or who passed them; the newsboys were scampering here and there, everybody buying from them, and the walls of Common street ringing with their shouted proffers of the “full account” of the election.
“Richling, don’t do it.”
“Why not?” Richling showed only amusement.
“For several reasons,” replied the other. “In the first place, look at your business!”
“Never so good as to-day.”
“True. And it entirely absorbs you. What time would you have at your fireside, or even at your family table? None. It’s—well you know what it is—it’s a bakery, you know. You couldn’t expect to lodge your wife and little girl in a bakery in Benjamin street; you know you couldn’t. Now, you—you don’t mind it—or, I mean, you can stand it. Those things never need damage a gentleman. But with your wife it would be different. You smile, but—why, you know she couldn’t go there. And if you put her anywhere where a lady ought to be, in New Orleans, she would be—well, don’t you see she would be about as far away as if she were in Milwaukee? Richling, I don’t know how it looks to you for me to be so meddlesome, and I believe you think I’m making a very poor argument; but you see this is only one point and the smallest. Now”—