“That’s so, Renmark, that’s so!” cried Yates enthusiastically. “A brownstone mansion on Fifth Avenue, and a log hut on the shores of Lake Superior! That would suit me down to the ground. Spend half the year in each place.”
“Yes,” said the professor meditatively; “a log hut on the rocks and under the trees, with the lake in front, would be very nice if the hut had a good library attached.”
“And a daily paper. Don’t forget the press.”
“No. I draw the line there. The daily paper would mean the daily steamer or the daily train. The one would frighten away the fish, and the other would disturb the stillness with its whistle.”
Yates sighed. “I forgot about the drawbacks,” he said. “That’s the trouble with civilization. You can’t have the things you want without bringing in their trail so many things you don’t want. I shall have to give up the daily paper.”
“Then there is another objection, worse than either steamer or train.”
“What’s that?”
“The daily paper itself.”
Yates sat up indignantly.
“Renmark!” he cried, “that’s blasphemy. For Heaven’s sake, man, hold something sacred. If you don’t respect the press, what do you respect? Not my most cherished feelings, at any rate, or you wouldn’t talk in that flippant manner. If you speak kindly of my daily paper, I’ll tolerate your library.”