"There!" cried David jubilantly. "Tell me the difference if you can—ain't that the very same as it used to be in the great big house? Didn't I tell you I could prove it?—there ain't no difference, Harvey; it's jest the very same," he repeated once again, rejoicing in the great truth he found so difficult to express. "An' that's what I always trained myself to believe," he went on after a long pause. "I always believed in simple livin'—even when I had lots o' chance the other way. Didn't I, Harvey?" he pursued, gazing into the other's eyes through the glow.
"That you did, Mr. Borland," Harvey affirmed. "And that's why it comes so easy to you now."
"That was how I knew poor Mr. Craig was on the wrong tack," David pursued thoughtfully. "I spotted the signs as soon as they began; when he started callin' his sideboard a 'buffy'—an' when he began sayin' 'blue mange' instead o' cornstarch; I heard him at his own table—an' callin' 'Johnny-cake' corn-cake—an' referrin' to the cuspidor when he meant a spittoon—when he began them tony names, I knew it was all up with poor Mr. Craig. When a man gets so dainty that his horses stop sweatin' an' begin perspirin', he ain't much good for common folks after that. That's why Mr. Craig wanted so bad to be mayor—jest that buffy idea, same thing," David explained pityingly. "An' then it wasn't long till he made the foolishest break of all," he went on; "d'ye know what it was?" as he looked enquiringly at Harvey; "you'd never guess."
"No idea," admitted Harvey.
"Well, he began takin' his dinner at supper time. Leastways, he began callin' it dinner—an' it's a terrible bad sign when a fellow begins takin' dinner when the dew's fallin'. His old father used to say: 'Well, I reckon it's time to feed again,' but Craig always said he guessed he'd have to go home to dinner—an' he wasn't never the same man after he begun that kind o' foolishness," David affirmed seriously. "The only other man I ever heard callin' supper dinner was a terrible rich fellow from New York. He had a summer cottage on Lake Joseph; he used to bring his own doctor with him, an' his own minister—an' his own undertaker. An' he took his dinner about bedtime," David concluded mournfully.
"Makin' out pretty good at the newspaper business, Harvey?" David asked presently, some minor themes disposed of.
Harvey pondered. He was thinking of many things. "Do you mean financially, Mr. Borland?" he asked at length.
"Yes, I reckon so; you're climbin' up the ladder a bit, ain't you?"
"I'm getting along pretty well, that way," Harvey replied. "And I think I'm getting an insight into the business. They say the Argus is going to change hands—but that won't affect my position at all."
"Pity you couldn't get a-hold of it," said David reflectively. "But don't worry about that, my boy. Don't never be disappointed if success don't come as fast as you think it should. It nearly always slips through a fellow's fingers at the last—so don't get set up on it. I'm gettin' to be an old man now; an' if there's one thing I've learned better'n another, it's how a man don't have them things in his own hands. I believe every man's jest runnin' on the time-table that's laid out for him; an' he'll spoil everythin' if he tries too much to interfere. Often we think we're terrible smart. An' mebbe we are—but we find out sooner or later we've got to walk the plank, an' it's queer how we get jockeyed jest when we think we're at the winnin' post. We're pretty handy with the rod an' the reel—but God handles the landin'-net Himself. That's why the biggest ones most gen'rally always get away," and David nodded his head seriously as he peered into Harvey's eyes.