money for it. You said that she liked it. And this
morning it fell out of the pocket of your coat."

"It does seem a little strange, I admit."

"Strange! No, it is not strange. It is a generous outrage. I don't know
what else to call it. I have been tricked, laughed at in the pocket of
your treacherous coat."

Milford mounted the horse. The Professor took hold of the bridle rein.
"You must not leave me thus. I have been left too long to simper and
smirk in self-cajolery, with an inward swell to think that my pen had
paid my insurance. You must explain."

"All right, I'll tell you. I thought well of your paper, you understand,
but when I got over to the house and faced the woman, my nerve failed
me, and I couldn't ask her to buy it."

"But you praised it," said the Professor, with a gulp, still holding the
bridle reins.

"Yes, and it was all right, but I lost my nerve. I had conjured up a
sort of speech to make to her, but it slipped me, and then my nerve
failed. It wasn't my fault, for I liked the paper all right enough, you
understand."

"But you brought the money. How about that?"

"Well, I had a few dollars, and I borrowed the rest from the old woman.
But that needn't worry you, for I paid her back when I sold my oats.
It's all right."

"Needn't worry me! Why, you fail to catch the spirit of my distress.
Your act leaves me in debt. Why did you do it, Milford? Why?"

Milford looked down at him, his eyes half closed. "You'd acknowledged
yourself a thief. You said you'd stolen a dog."

"Yes, I know," the Professor agreed, glancing about. "I know, but what
of that?"

"Well, it made you my brother. And don't you think a man ought to help
his brother in distress? Don't let it worry you. Don't think about it.
If you can ever pay it back, all right. If you can't, it's still all
right, so there you are. Let me go."

"Milford, in the idiom of the day, I am not a dead beat. I do not like
the term, and I employ it only out of necessity. Beat is well enough,
but dead is lacking in the significance of natural growth. I hope that
you give me credit for seriousness. I am not a flippant man; I am
innately solemn, knowing that the only progressive force in the human
family is earnestness. But sometimes in the hour of my heaviest
solemnity I may appear light; and why? In the hope that I may deceive my
own heart into a few moments of forgetful levity. And you say that you
are going over to look at some calves. Now that