“Well, there are varieties. Can you hold your tongue?”
“Yes—can hold tongue.”
“You can fib a bit?”
“Heap much.”
“Then remember I am one of the men up here, no matter who.”
“Well, of all the absurd things!” said the mentor within the tent.
“By St. Botolph, as they say in Boston, I need a little absurdity to make a decent average after a fortnight with you, you confounded old conventional et cætera.” And, talking or laughing, he presently emerged in pretty well soiled velveteens, a dingy jacket, slouched felt hat, and his trousers stuffed in his long boots.
“Are you really going?” said Ellett.
“I am. Come along, Polycarp. I fancy I’m dressed in character. What fun! He will want to pay me,” and he whistled as he pushed the bow out into the stream and sat down to paddle.
Meanwhile Mr. Oliver Ellett considered his vanishing friend from afar with mingled feelings of dismay and admiration. “That is a very remarkable man. I couldn’t possibly have done that. I think there are several brief insanities besides anger.” Then, as if surprised at his own cleverness, he added, “I wish Carington had heard that. Confound it!” and he smote an army of unseen midges who had taken advantage of his abstraction to prey on the ruddy cheeks, which, with a slight tendency to stoutness of girth, gave him a look of youthfulness he much detested.