“You’re not—not going to ask
father for it?” she faltered.
“Not very much,” said Bartley, as he took
his hat to go out.
He meant to make a raise out of Ben Halleck, as he
phrased it to himself. He knew that Halleck had
plenty of money; he could make the stock itself over
to him as security; he did not see why Halleck should
hesitate. But when he entered Halleck’s
room, having asked Cyrus to show him directly there,
Halleck gave a start which seemed ominous to Bartley.
He had scarcely the heart to open his business, and
Halleck listened with changing color, and something
only too like the embarrassment of a man who intends
a refusal. He would not look Bartley in the face,
and when Bartley had made an end he sat for a time
without speaking. At last he said with a quick
sigh, as if at the close of an internal conflict, “I
will lend you the money!”
Bartley’s heart gave a bound, and he broke out
into an immense laugh of relief, and clapped Halleck
on the shoulder. “You looked deucedly as
it’ you wouldn’t, old man!
By George, you had on such a dismal, hang-dog expression
that I didn’t know but you’d come
to borrow money of me, and I’d made up
my mind not to let you have it! But I’m
everlastingly obliged to you, Halleck, and I promise
you that you won’t regret it.”
“I shall have to speak to my father about this,”
said Halleck, responding coldly to Bartley’s
robust pressure of his hand.
“Of course,—of course.”
“How soon shall you want the money?”
“Well, the sooner the better, now. Bring
the check round—can’t you?—to-morrow
night,—and take dinner with us, you and
Olive; and we’ll celebrate a little. I
know it will please Marcia when she finds out who my
hard-hearted creditor is!”
“Well,” assented Halleck with a smile
so ghastly that Bartley noticed it even in his joy.
“Curse me,” he said to himself, “if
ever I saw a man so ashamed of doing a good action!”
The Presidential canvas of the summer—which,
followed upon these events in Bartley’s career
was not very active. Sometimes, in fact, it languished
so much that people almost forgot it, and a good field
was afforded the Events for the practice of independent
journalism. To hold a course of strict impartiality,
and yet come out on the winning side was a theory of
independent journalism which Bartley illustrated with
cynical enjoyment. He developed into something
rather artistic the gift which he had always shown
in his newspaper work for ironical persiflage.
Witherby was not a man to feel this burlesque himself;
but when it was pointed out to him by others, he came
to Bartley in some alarm from its effect upon the fortunes
of the paper. “We can’t afford, Mr.
Hubbard,” he said, with virtuous trepidation,
“we can’t afford to make fun of
our friends!”
Bartley laughed at Witherby’s anxiety.
“They’re no more our friends than the
other fellows are. We are independent journalists;
and this way of treating the thing leaves us perfectly
free hereafter to claim, just as we choose, that we
were in fun or in earnest on any particular question
if we’re ever attacked. See?”
