“Why—why—no, you aint!” he protested, with a revulsion of feeling that swept away all his resentment, and left him nothing but remorse for his inhospitality.
“No?” said Bartley, putting up the collar of the first ulster worn by a native in that region.
“Why, look here!” cried Kinney, pulling his hands out of the dough, and making a fruitless effort to cleanse them upon each other. “I don't want you to go, this way.”
“Don't you? I'm sorry to disoblige you; but I'm going,” said Bartley.
Kinney tried to laugh. “Why, Hubbard,—why, Bartley,—why, Bart!” he exclaimed. “What's the matter with you? I aint mad!”
“You have an unfortunate manner, then. Good night.” He strode out between the bunks, full of snoring loggers.
Kinney hurried after him, imploring and protesting in a low voice, trying to get before him, and longing to lay his floury paws upon him and detain him by main force, but even in his distress respecting Bartley's overcoat too much to touch it. He followed him out into the freezing air in his shirt-sleeves, and besought him not to be such a fool. “It makes me feel like the devil!” he exclaimed, pitifully. “You come back, now, half a minute, and I'll make it all right with you. I know I can; you're a gentleman, and you'll understand. Do come back! I shall never get over it if you don't!”
“I'm sorry,” said Bartley, “but I'm not going back. Good night.”
“Oh, good Lordy!” lamented Kinney. “What am I goin' to do? Why, man! It's a good three mile and more to Equity, and the woods is full of catamounts. I tell ye 't aint safe for ye.” He kept following Bartley down the path to the road.
“I'll risk it,” said Bartley.