gan sources. But now
and then you, Mrs. Quimby, are going to send me something cooked as no
other woman in the county can cook it. I can see it in your eyes. In my
poor way I shall try to repay you."
He continued to smile into Mrs. Quimby's broad cheerful face. Mr. Magee
had the type of smile that moves men to part with ten until Saturday,
and women to close their eyes and dream of Sir Launcelot. Mrs. Quimby
could not long resist. She smiled back. Whereupon Billy Magee sprang to
his feet.
"It's all fixed," he cried. "We'll get on splendidly. And now--for
Baldpate Inn."
"Not just yet," said Mrs. Quimby. "I ain't one to let anybody go up to
Baldpate Inn unfed. I 'spose we're sort o' responsible for you, while
you're up here. You just set right down and I'll have your supper hot
and smoking on the table in no time."
Mr. Magee entered into no dispute on this point, and for half an hour he
was the pleased recipient of advice, philosophy, and food. When he had
assured Mrs. Quimby that he had eaten enough to last him the entire two
months he intended spending at the inn, Mr. Quimby came in, attired in a
huge "before the war" ulster, and carrying a lighted lantern.
"So you're going to sit up there and write things," he commented. "Well,
I reckon you'll be left to yourself, all right."
"I hope so," responded Mr. Magee. "I want to be so lonesome I'll sob
myself to sleep every night. It's the only road to immortality. Good-by,
Mrs. Quimby. In my fortress on the mountain I shall expect an occasional
culinary message from you." He took her plump hand; this motherly little
woman seemed the last link binding him to the world of reality.
"Good-by," smiled Mrs. Quimby. "Be careful of matches."
Mr. Quimby led the way with the lantern, and presently they stepped out
upon the road. The storm had ceased, but it was still very dark. Far
below, in the valley, twinkled the lights of Upper Asquewan Falls.
"By the way, Quimby," remarked Mr. Magee, "is there a girl in your town
who has blue eyes, light hair, and the general air of a queen out
shopping?"
"Light hair," repeated Quimby. "There's Sally Perry. She teaches in the
Methodist Sunday-school."
"No," said Mr. Magee. "My description was poor, I'm afraid. This one I
refer to, when she weeps, gives the general effect of mist on the sea at
dawn. The Methodists do not monopolize her."
"I read books, and I read newspapers," said Mr. Quimby, "but a lot of
your talk I don'
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