“Right you are, sonny; you’ll get along. Here’s five dollars, all in one bill. If you meet any other of the messengers, take them back with you. There’s no use of their wasting valuable time in this little neck of the woods.”
The boy stuffed the bill into his vest pocket as carelessly as if it represented cents instead of dollars, mounted his tired horse, and waved his hand in farewell to the newspaper man. Yates turned and walked slowly back to the tent. He threw himself once more into the hammock. As he expected, the professor was more taciturn than ever, and, although he had been prepared for silence, the silence irritated him. He felt ill used at having so unsympathetic a companion.
“Look here, Renmark; why don’t you say something?”
“There is nothing to say.”
“Oh, yes, there is. You don’t approve of me, do you?”
“I don’t suppose it makes any difference whether I approve or not.”
“Oh, yes, it does. A man likes to have the approval of even the humblest of his fellow-creatures. Say, what will you take in cash to approve of me? People talk of the tortures of conscience, but you are more uncomfortable than the most cast-iron conscience any man ever had. One’s own conscience one can deal with, but a conscience in the person of another man is beyond one’s control. Now, it is like this: I am here for quiet and rest. I have earned both, and I think I am justified in——”
“Now, Mr. Yates, please spare me any cheap philosophy on the question. I am tired of it.”
“And of me, too, I suppose?”
“Well, yes, rather—if you want to know.”