One of the deputies, who was rolling a cigarette, grinned down at the makings. It chanced that he had heard voices in the attic.
“Some of us sure would,” he agreed affably. “Me, I ain’t lost McClintock awful bad anyhow.”
CHAPTER XXXV
McCLINTOCK READS TENNYSON
Miss Lowell, schoolmarm, sat in the parlour of her boarding house and corrected spelling papers. Across the lamplit table from her was Hugh McClintock. He was browsing through a volume of poems written by the man who had been for two decades and still was the world’s most popular philosopher of progress. The book was Vicky’s, and she handed it to him with a word of youth’s extravagant praise.
“I think he’s the greatest poet that ever lived.”
Hugh smiled. “He’ll have to step some.” He mentioned Shakespeare and others.
But Vicky flamed with the enthusiasm of a convert. “It’s not only the music of his words. It’s what he says. He shakes the dead bones so. If you haven’t read ‘In Memoriam’ you must.”
“I’ve read it.”
“Did you ever read anything so—so inspiring?”