A four-wheeled buggy, with springs, the only vehicle of its kind in Bison, had been hired for Power’s first outing. During a whole week toward the close of July he had stumped about on a crutch, and, when the great day arrived that he was able to crawl slowly to and fro in the veranda with the aid of a stick, he announced to the watchful MacGonigal that henceforth he was “on the job again.”
On that memorable occasion, while Derry was showing off the new-found accomplishment of walking, an elderly man, white-haired and wiry, but of small stature, rode by on a mettlesome mustang. Power’s face grew hard when he met the rider’s stare of astonishment; but the expression fled instantly, and he waved a friendly greeting, which, however, received the curtest of responses, while the horse unexpectedly found his head free for a canter.
MacGonigal, whose big eyes lost nothing within range, noted the bare nod which acknowledged Power’s salute.
“Old man Willard held out the marble mitt that-a time, Derry,” said he.
Power did not reply for a moment. When he answered, he quoted Dryden’s couplet:
“Forgiveness to the injured doth belong;
But they ne’er pardon who have done the wrong.”
“Good fer you, Derry!” exclaimed the storekeeper appreciatively. “I’ve often wondered what you was connin’ to yerself up thar,” and he jerked his head in the direction of Power’s bedroom; “but I never allowed it was po’try.”
“You were not mistaken, Mac. I was hard at work on dry prose. Those lines are not mine. They were written before Colorado was christened, and they will be true until men attain the millennium.”
“Huh!”
MacGonigal took refuge in a noncommittal grunt, because he fancied that the millennium was the name of a Chicago vaudeville house, and, somehow, the notion did not seem to fit into its right place in the conversation.