Yates laughed. “That’s so,” he said; “but, you see, Renny, we New Yorkers live in such an atmosphere of exaggeration that if I did not put it strongly it wouldn’t have any effect. You’ve got to give a big dose to a man who has been taking poison all his life. They will take off ninety per cent. from any statement I make, anyhow; so, you see, I have to pile it up pretty high before the remaining ten per cent. amounts to anything.”
The conversation was interrupted by the crackling of the dry twigs behind them, and Yates, who had been keeping his eye nervously on the fence, turned round. Young Bartlett pushed his way through the underbrush. His face was red; he had evidently been running.
“Two telegrams for you, Mr. Yates,” he panted. “The fellows that brought ‘em said they were important; so I ran out with them myself, for fear they wouldn’t find you. One of them’s from Port Colborne, the other’s from Buffalo.”
Telegrams were rare on the farm, and young Bartlett looked on the receipt of one as an event in a man’s life. He was astonished to see Yates receive the double event with a listlessness that he could not help thinking was merely assumed for effect. Yates held them in his hand, and did not tear them up at once out of consideration for the feelings of the young man, who had had a race to deliver them.
“Here’s two books they wanted you to sign. They’re tired out, and mother’s giving them something to eat.”
“Professor, you sign for me, won’t you?” said Yates.
Bartlett lingered a moment, hoping that he would hear something of the contents of the important messages; but Yates did not even open the envelopes, although he thanked the young man heartily for bringing them.
“Stuck-up cuss!” muttered young Bartlett to himself, as he shoved the signed books into his pocket and pushed his way through the underbrush again. Yates slowly and methodically tore the envelopes and their contents into little pieces, and scattered them as before.
“Begins to look like autumn,” he said, “with the yellow leaves strewing the ground.”