Chapter XXXIV - Page 2

"You see, this morning
the poundman got Maria's two cows and the baby calf, and - well, it
happened that Maria didn't have any money, and so I had to recover
her cows for her. That's where the TRANSCONTINENTAL fiver went -
'The Ring of Bells' went into the poundman's pocket."

"Then you won't come?"

He looked down at his clothing.

"I can't."

Tears of disappointment and reproach glistened in her blue eyes,
but she said nothing.

"Next Thanksgiving you'll have dinner with me in Delmonico's," he
said cheerily; "or in London, or Paris, or anywhere you wish. I
know it."

"I saw in the paper a few days ago," she announced abruptly, "that
there had been several local appointments to the Railway Mail. You
passed first, didn't you?"

He was compelled to admit that the call had come for him, but that
he had declined it. "I was so sure - I am so sure - of myself," he
concluded. "A year from now I'll be earning more than a dozen men
in the Railway Mail. You wait and see."

"Oh," was all she said, when he finished. She stood up, pulling at
her gloves. "I must go, Martin. Arthur is waiting for me."

He took her in his arms and kissed her, but she proved a passive
sweetheart. There was no tenseness in her body, her arms did not
go around him, and her lips met his without their wonted pressure.

She was angry with him, he concluded, as he returned from the gate.
But why? It was unfortunate that the poundman had gobbled Maria's
cows. But it was only a stroke of fate. Nobody could be blamed
for it. Nor did it enter his head that he could have done aught
otherwise than what he had done. Well, yes, he was to blame a
little, was his next thought, for having refused the call to the
Railway Mail. And she had not liked "Wiki-Wiki."

He turned at the head of the steps to meet the letter-carrier on
his afternoon round. The ever recurrent fever of expectancy
assailed Martin as he took the bundle of long envelopes. One was
not long. It was short and thin, and outside was printed the
address of THE NEW YORK OUTVIEW. He paused in the act of tearing
the envelope open. It could not be an acceptance. He had no
manuscripts with that publication. Perhaps - his heart almost
stood still at the - wild thought - perhaps they were ordering an
article from him; but the next instant he dismissed the surmise as
hopelessly impossible.

It was a short, formal letter, signed by the office editor, merely
informing him that an anonymous letter which they had received was
enclosed, and that he could rest assured the OUTVIEW'S staff never
under any circumstances gave consideration to anonymous
correspondence.

The enclosed letter Martin found to be crudely printed