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The Third Violet, a novel by Stephen Crane |
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CHAPTER 9 |
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_ CHAPTER IX. "Eh?" said Hollanden. "Oglethorpe? Oglethorpe? Why, he's that friend of the Fanhalls! Yes, of course, I know him! Deuced good fellow, too! What about him?" "Oh, nothing, only he's coming here to-morrow," answered Hawker. "What kind of a fellow did you say he was?" "Deuced good fellow! What are you so---- Say, by the nine mad blacksmiths of Donawhiroo, he's your rival! Why, of course! Glory, but I must be thick-headed to-night!" Hawker said, "Where's your tobacco?" "Yonder, in that jar. Got a pipe?" "Yes. How do you know he's my rival?" "Know it? Why, hasn't he been---- Say, this is getting thrilling!" Hollanden sprang to his feet and, filling a pipe, flung himself into the chair and began to rock himself madly to and fro. He puffed clouds of smoke. Hawker stood with his face in shadow. At last he said, in tones of deep weariness, "Well, I think I'd better be going home and turning in." "Hold on!" Hollanden exclaimed, turning his eyes from a prolonged stare at the ceiling, "don't go yet! Why, man, this is just the time when---- Say, who would ever think of Jem Oglethorpe's turning up to harrie you! Just at this time, too!" "Oh," cried Hawker suddenly, filled with rage, "you remind me of an accursed duffer! Why can't you tell me something about the man, instead of sitting there and gibbering those crazy things at the ceiling?" "By the piper----" "Oh, shut up! Tell me something about Oglethorpe, can't you? I want to hear about him. Quit all that other business!" "Why, Jem Oglethorpe, he--why, say, he's one of the best fellows going. If he were only an ass! If he were only an ass, now, you could feel easy in your mind. But he isn't. No, indeed. Why, blast him, there isn't a man that knows him who doesn't like Jem Oglethorpe! Excepting the chumps!" The window of the little room was open, and the voices of the pines could be heard as they sang of their long sorrow. Hawker pulled a chair close and stared out into the darkness. The people on the porch of the inn were frequently calling, "Good-night! Good-night!" Hawker said, "And of course he's got train loads of money?" "You bet he has! He can pave streets with it. Lordie, but this is a situation!" A heavy scowl settled upon Hawker's brow, and he kicked at the dressing case. "Say, Hollie, look here! Sometimes I think you regard me as a bug and like to see me wriggle. But----" "Oh, don't be a fool!" said Hollanden, glaring through the smoke. "Under the circumstances, you are privileged to rave and ramp around like a wounded lunatic, but for heaven's sake don't swoop down on me like that! Especially when I'm--when I'm doing all I can for you." "Doing all you can for me! Nobody asked you to. You talk as if I were an infant." "There! That's right! Blaze up like a fire balloon just because I said that, will you? A man in your condition--why, confound you, you are an infant!" Hawker seemed again overwhelmed in a great dislike of himself. "Oh, well, of course, Hollie, it----" He waved his hand. "A man feels like--like----" "Certainly he does," said Hollanden. "That's all right, old man." "And look now, Hollie, here's this Oglethorpe----" "May the devil fly away with him!" "Well, here he is, coming along when I thought maybe--after a while, you know--I might stand some show. And you are acquainted with him, so give me a line on him." "Well, I should advise you to----" "Blow your advice! I want to hear about Oglethorpe." "Well, in the first place, he is a rattling good fellow, as I told you before, and this is what makes it so----" "Oh, hang what it makes it! Go on." "He is a rattling good fellow and he has stacks of money. Of course, in this case his having money doesn't affect the situation much. Miss Fanhall----" "Say, can you keep to the thread of the story, you infernal literary man!" "Well, he's popular. He don't talk money--ever. And if he's wicked, he's not sufficiently proud of it to be perpetually describing his sins. And then he is not so hideously brilliant, either. That's great credit to a man in these days. And then he--well, take it altogether, I should say Jem Oglethorpe was a smashing good fellow." "I wonder how long he is going to stay?" murmured Hawker. During this conversation his pipe had often died out. It was out at this time. He lit another match. Hollanden had watched the fingers of his friend as the match was scratched. "You're nervous, Billie," he said. Hawker straightened in his chair. "No, I'm not." "I saw your fingers tremble when you lit that match." "Oh, you lie!" Hollanden mused again. "He's popular with women, too," he said ultimately; "and often a woman will like a man and hunt his scalp just because she knows other women like him and want his scalp." "Yes, but not----" "Hold on! You were going to say that she was not like other women, weren't you?" "Not exactly that, but----" "Well, we will have all that understood." After a period of silence Hawker said, "I must be going." As the painter walked toward the door Hollanden cried to him: "Heavens! Of all pictures of a weary pilgrim!" His voice was very compassionate. Hawker wheeled, and an oath spun through the smoke clouds. _ |
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