Bartley hemmed. “Well—I know the proprietor of the Events.”
“Ah, yes: Mr. Witherby. Well, they say he's got the money. I hear my lodgers talkin' about that paper consid'able. I haven't ever seen it.”
Bartley now went up-stairs; he had an idea in his head. Marcia remained with Mrs. Nash a few moments. “He's been in Boston before,” she said, with proud satisfaction; “he visited here when he was in college.”
“Law, is he college-bred?” cried Mrs. Nash. “Well, I thought he looked 'most too wide-awake for that. He aint a bit offish. He seems re'l practical. What you hurryin' off so for?” she asked, as Marcia rose, and stood poised on the threshold, in act to follow her husband. “Why don't you set here with me, while he's at his writin'? You'll just keep talkin to him and takin' his mind off, the whole while. You stay here!” she commanded hospitably. “You'll just be in the way, up there.”
This was a novel conception to Marcia, but its good sense struck her. “Well, I will,” she said. “I'll run up a minute to leave my things, and then I'll come back.”
She found Bartley dragging the table, on which he had already laid out his writing-materials, into a good light, and she threw her arms round his neck, as if they had been a great while parted.
“Come up to kiss me good luck?” he asked, finding her lips.
“Yes, and to tell you how splendid you are, going right to work this way,” she answered fondly.
“Oh, I don't believe in losing time; and I've got to strike while the iron's hot, if I'm going to write out that logging-camp business. I'll take it over to that Events man, and hit him with it, while it's fresh in his mind.”
“Yes,” said Marcia. “Are you going to write that out?”