"I suppose some would call her that," was Harvey's rather deliberate reply.
"Oh, that's all right," David assured him; "I don't mean no disrespect. Most old maids is reg'lar angels—with variations. I often tell the missus if I was ever left alone I'd probably marry again, out of respect for her—there's nothin' like an encore to show you've enjoyed the first performance—an' I always say I'd take an old maid. Of course, I might change my mind," David went on gravely; "most old fools does, takes up with some little gosling that ought to be in school. An' I've noticed how the fellows that yelps the loudest at the funeral begins takin' notice the soonest—they don't most gen'rally stay in long for repairs," he concluded solemnly, scraping the clay from his boot-heel as he spoke.
"If Miss Farringall's an old maid," Harvey resumed, "she's one of the nicest I ever knew—and one of the happiest too, I think."
"Old maids is pretty much all happy," pronounced David, "that is, when they stop strugglin'—but most of 'em dies hard. They'd all be happy if they'd only do what I heard a preacher advisin' once. I was mad as a hatter, too."
"What about?" asked Harvey wonderingly.
"Well, I'll tell you. It was at a funeral in a church—last year, I think—an' after the service was over he came out to the front o' the pulpit. 'The congregation 'll remain seated,' says he, 'till the casket has went down the aisle; then the mourners will follow, an' the clergy 'll follow them. After that,' says he, 'after that, the congregation will quietly retire.' Quietly, mind you!" said David sternly; "did he think we was goin' to give three cheers for the corpse, I wonder?" and he looked earnestly at Harvey for approval of his indignation. "But I've often thought, jest the same, how much happier everybody'd be, 'specially old maids, if they'd only retire quietly."
"I'll have to tell that to the editor of the funny column," Harvey said when his composure had returned; "and I'll send it on to you when it appears in the Argus."
"I'm a subscriber to that paper now," David said complacently; "how 're you gettin' along?—like the editin' business pretty good?"
"Fine," Harvey assured him cordially. Then he told, as modestly as he could, of what success he had achieved and of his prospects of promotion.
"Where you got the start was goin' into it as soon as you left school," David averred; "there's nothin' like gettin' at your work early. That's why I advise gettin' up a little afore day—for other folks. You see, you'll get the hang of it—of editin', I mean—afore you're set in your ways. If you want to succeed these days, you've got to take time by the fetlock, as one of them old philosophers said. That's what makes all the difference between two fellows; one'll waste his time gallivantin' round, while the other's learnin' all about his business an' gettin' ready for somethin' big. Now, there's poor Cecil, for instance—you've heard what's come o' Cecil?"