The boys had not yet shown their dialogue to any one. Clinton had thought of getting his father to read it, but no opportunity had presented itself as yet. On Friday evening, after tea, Mr. Davenport took a chair from the house, and seated himself just outside of the front door to enjoy the cool air, for the day had been quite sultry. Annie, with her little chair, soon seated herself by his side and engaged his attention, and it was some little time before Clinton could get a chance to broach the subject which was upon his mind.
“Ah! have you finished the dialogue, so soon?” inquired Mr. Davenport, when Clinton alluded to it.
“Yes, sir, it’s all done, and we’re going down to Spouting Hollow, to-morrow afternoon, to rehearse it,” replied Clinton.
“Well, you have been pretty smart, and I hope you have done your best, too,” said his father, in a tone that seemed to imply some slight misgivings.
“We think we have done pretty well,” remarked Whistler. “At any rate, we’ve made a better dialogue than I thought we could.”
“Ah! I’m glad to hear that,” replied Mr. Davenport; “what is the subject of it?”
“Perhaps you would like to read it,” said Clinton, with some reluctance, slowly drawing the manuscript from his jacket pocket.
“Yes, I will read it, if you wish,” replied his father.
Mr. Davenport took the paper, and commenced reading it, for it was not yet dark. The boys walked back and forth, around the house, both feeling something of that indefinite dread which the modest literary aspirant always experiences when his performances are submitted to superior wisdom and judgment.
“How long it takes him to read it!” at length whispered Clinton, after they had returned several times to the doorway, and found him still absorbed with the dialogue.