“Guess it was the clothes again,” said
Kinney, as he began to wash his tins and dishes after
the dinner was over, and the men had gone back to their
work. “I could see ’em eyin’
you over when they first came in, and I could see
that they didn’t exactly like the looks of ’em.
It would wear off in time, but it takes time
for it to wear off; and it had to go pretty rusty
for a start-off. Well, I don’t know as it
makes much difference to you, does it?”
“Oh, I thought we got along very well,”
said Bartley, with a careless yawn. “There
wasn’t much chance to get acquainted.”
Some of the loggers were as handsome and well-made
as he, and were of as good origin and traditions,
though he had some advantages of training. But
his two-button cutaway, his well-fitting trousers,
his scarf with a pin in it, had been too much for
these young fellows in their long ’stoga boots
and flannel shirts. They looked at him askance,
and despatched their meal with more than their wonted
swiftness, and were off again into the woods without
any demonstrations of satisfaction in Bartley’s
presence.
He had perceived their grudge, for he had felt it
in his time. But it did not displease him; he
had none of the pain with which Kinney, who had so
long bragged of him to the loggers, saw that his guest
was a failure.
“I guess they’ll come out all right in
the end,” he said. In this warm atmosphere,
after the gross and heavy dinner he had eaten, he yawned
again and again. He folded his overcoat into
a pillow for his bench and lay down, and lazily watched
Kinney about his work. Presently he saw Kinney
seated on a block of wood beside the stove, with his
elbow propped in one hand, and holding a magazine,
out of which he was reading; he wore spectacles, which
gave him a fresh and interesting touch of grotesqueness.
Bartley found that an empty barrel had been placed
on each side of him, evidently to keep him from rolling
off his bench.
“Hello!” he said. “Much obliged
to you, Kinney. I haven’t been taken such
good care of since I can remember. Been asleep,
haven’t I?”
“About an hour,” said Kinney, with a glance
at the clock, and ignoring his agency in Bartley’s
comfort.
“Food for the brain!” said Bartley, sitting
up. “I should think so. I’ve
dreamt a perfect New American Cyclopaedia, and a pronouncing
gazetteer thrown in.”
“Is that so?” said Kinney, as if pleased
with the suggestive character of his cookery, now
established by eminent experiment.
Bartley yawned a yawn of satisfied sleepiness, and
rubbed his hand over his face. “I suppose,”
he said, “if I’m going to write anything
about Camp Kinney, I had better see all there is to
see.”
“Well, yes, I presume you had,” said Kinney.
“We’ll go over to where they’re
cuttin’, pretty soon, and you can see all there
is in an hour. But I presume you’ll want
to see it so as to ring in some description, hey?
Well, that’s all right. But what you going
to do with it, when you’ve done it, now you’re
out of the Free Press?”
