Bartley was addressing for the mail the papers which one of the girls was folding. “What are you going to do about it?” he demanded of his sympathizer with whimsical sullenness, not troubling himself to look up at him.
“Well, I haint exactly settled yet,” replied the philosopher, who was of a tall, lank figure, and of a mighty brown beard. “But I've been around pretty much everywhere, and I find that about the poorest use you can put a man to is to kill him.”
“It depends a good deal on the man,” said Bartley. “But that's stale, Kinney. It's the old formula of the anti-capital-punishment fellows. Try something else. They're not talking of hanging me yet.” He kept on writing, and the philosopher stood over him with a humorous twinkle of enjoyment at Bartley's readiness.
“Well, I'll allow it's old,” he admitted. “So's Homer.”
“Yes; but you don't pretend that you wrote Homer.”
Kinney laughed mightily; then he leaned forward, and slapped Bartley on the shoulder with his newspaper. “Look here!” he exclaimed, “I like you!”
“Oh, try some other tack! Lots of fellows like me.” Bartley kept on writing. “I gave you your paper, didn't I, Kinney?”
“You mean that you want me to get out?”
“Far be it from me to say so.”
This delighted Kinney as much as the last refinement of hospitality would have pleased another man. “Look here!” he said, “I want you should come out and see our camp. I can't fool away any more time on you here; but I want you should come out and see us. Give you something to write about. Hey?”