"Glad to meet you, sir," I said, taking hold of something—his hand, I suppose. I was urged to sit down again; Guinea said that she would bring two more chairs, and when I had dropped back between the arms of the rocker I looked at the man standing there, and a sort of glad disappointment cleared my vision and placed him before me in a strong light. He was short, almost fat, and in his thin, whitish hair there was a hint at coming baldness. The close attention that he had been compelled to give practical things, the sawing of bones, the tracing of nerves, the undoing of man's machinery, had given him the cynical look of a hard materialist. But when he stepped back to take the chair which Guinea had brought I saw that he moved easily, that he was cool and knew well how to handle himself. And this drove away the meager joy of my glad disappointment.
"I hear you are going to take up school Monday," he said. "Rather late to begin school just now, I should think."
"Under ordinary circumstances it would be regarded as late in the season," I answered, "but we have been so interrupted that we now decide to have no vacation."
"I guess you are right. Had a pretty close shave with those fellows, didn't you? Ought to have killed them right there. I've seen Scott. Thought he was a pretty bright fellow, naturally; rather witty. Would make a first-rate subject on the slab."
"Because you thought him witty, sir?" I asked.
"Of course not; but because he is a good specimen—big fellow." He looked at me and I thought that he was measuring my chest. "Yes," he continued, "ought to have killed them. Man's got to take care of himself, you know, and he can't make it his business to show mercy. Most all the virtues now are back-woods qualities."
"I don't believe that," Guinea spoke up. "Every day we read of the generosity of the world."
"Oh," he said, passing his short fingers through his thin hair, "you read about it, and people who want to shine as generous creatures take particular pains that you shall read about it. You've a great deal to learn, my dear little woman."
"And perhaps there is a great deal that she doesn't care to learn," I ventured to suggest; and I quickly looked at her to see whether I had made another mistake. I had not, her quiet smile told me, and I felt bold enough to have thrown him over the fence.
"What we wish to know and what we ought to know are two different matters," he said. "But I hold that we ought to know the truth, no difference what the truth may be. I want facts; I don't want paint. I don't want to believe that the gilt on the dome goes all the way through."