“He’s being killed with kindness,” whispered Dick, “like the man who was run over by an ambulance.”
Harlan arranged for Uncle Israel to stay until he was quite healed of this last complication, and then wrote out the address of Cousin Betsey Skiles, with which Dick was fortunately familiar. “And,” added Dick, “if he’s troublesome, crate him and send him by freight. We don’t want to see him again.”
Less than a week later, Uncle Israel and his bed were safely installed at Cousin Betsey’s, and he was able to write twelve pages of foolscap, fully expressing his opinion of Harlan and Dick and the sanitarium staff, and Uncle Ebeneezer, and the rest of the world in general, conveying it by registered mail to “J. H. Car & Familey.” The composition revealed an astonishing command of English, particularly in the way of vituperation. Had Uncle Israel known more profanity, he undoubtedly would have incorporated it in the text.
“It reminds me,” said Elaine, who was permitted to read it, “of a little coloured boy we used to know. A playmate quarrelled with him and began to call him names, using all the big words he had ever heard, regardless of their meaning. When his vocabulary was exhausted, our little friend asked, quietly: ‘Is you froo?’ ‘Yes,’ returned the other, ‘I’s froo.’ ‘Well then,’ said the master of the situation, calmly, turning on his heel, ‘all those things what you called me, you is.’”
“That’s right,” laughed Dick. “All those things Uncle Israel has called us, he is, but it makes him a pretty tough old customer.”
A blessed peace had descended upon the house and its occupants. Harlan’s work was swiftly nearing completion, and in another day or two, he would be ready to read the neatly typed pages to the members of his household. Dorothy could scarcely wait to hear it, and stole many a secret glance at the manuscript when Harlan was out of the house. Lover-like, she expected great things from it, and she saw the world of readers, literally, at her husband’s feet. So great was her faith in him that she never for an instant suspected that there might possibly be difficulty at the start—that any publisher could be wary of this masterpiece by an unknown.
The Carrs had planned to remain where they were until the book was finished, then to take the precious manuscript, and go forth to conquer the City. Afterward, perhaps, a second honeymoon journey, for both were sorely in need of rest and recreation.
Elaine was going with them, and Dorothy was to interview the Personage whose private secretary she had once been, and see if that position or one fully as desirable could not be found for her friend. Also, Elaine was to make her home with the Carrs. “I won’t let you live in a New York boarding house,” said Dorothy warmly, “as long as we’ve any kind of a roof over our heads.”
Dick had discovered that, as he expressed it, he must “quit fooling and get a job.” Hitherto, Mr. Chester had preferred care-free idleness to any kind of toil, and a modest sum, carefully hoarded, represented to Dick only freedom to do as he pleased until it gave out. Then he began to consider work again, but as he seldom did the same kind of work twice, he was not particularly proficient in any one line.
Still, Dick had no false ideas about labour. At college he had canvassed for subscription books, solicited life and fire insurance, swept walks, shovelled snow, carried out ashes, and even handled trunks for the express company, all with the same cheerful equanimity. His small but certain income sufficed for his tuition and other necessary expenses, but for board at Uncle Ebeneezer’s and a few small luxuries, he was obliged to work.