Bartley was addressing for the mail the papers which one of the girls was folding. “What are you going to do about it?” he demanded of his sympathizer with whimsical sullenness, not troubling himself to look up at him. “Well, I haint exactly settled yet,” replied the philosopher, who was of a tall, lank figure, and of a mighty brown beard. “But I've been around pretty much everywhere, and I find that about the poorest use you can put a man to is to kill him.” “It depends a good deal on the man,” said Bartley. “But that's stale, Kinney. It's the old formula of the anti-capital-punishment fellows. Try something else. They're not talking of hanging me yet.” He kept on writing, and the philosopher stood over him with a humorous twinkle of enjoyment at Bartley's readiness. “Well, I'll allow it's old,” he admitted. “So's Homer.” “Yes; but you don't pretend that you wrote Homer.” Kinney laughed mightily; then he leaned forward, and slapped Bartley on the shoulder with his newspaper. “Look here!” he exclaimed, “I _like_ you!” “Oh, try some other tack! Lots of fellows like me.” Bartley kept on writing. “I gave you your paper, didn't I, Kinney?” “You mean that you want me to get out?” “Far be it from me to say so.” This delighted Kinney as much as the last refinement of hospitality would have pleased another man. “Look here!” he said, “I want you should come out and see our camp. I can't fool away any more time on you here; but I want you should come out and see us. Give you something to write about. Hey?” “The invitation comes at a time when circumstances over which I have no control oblige me to decline it. I admire your prudence, Kinney.” “No, honest Injian, now,” protested Kinney. “Take a day off, and fill up with dead advertisements. That's the way they used to do out in Alkali City when they got short of help on the Eagle, and we liked it just as well.” “Now you are talking sense,” said Bartley, looking up at him. “How far is it to your settlement?” “Two miles, if you're goin'; three and a half, if you aint.” “When are you coming in?” “I'm in, now.” “I can't go with you to-day.” “Well, how'll to-morrow morning suit?” “To-morrow morning will suit,” said Bartley. “All right. If anybody comes to see the editor to-morrow morning, Marilla,” said Kinney to the girl, “you tell 'em he's sick, and gone a-loggin', and won't be back till Saturday. Say,” he added, laying his hand on Bartley's shoulder, “you aint foolin'?” “If I am,” replied Bartley, “just mention it.” “Good!” said Kinney. “To-morrow it is, then.” Bartley finished addressing the newspapers, and then he put them up in wrappers and packages for the mail. “You can go, now, Marilla,” he said to the girl. “I'll leave some copy for you and Kitty; you'll find it on my table in the morning.” “All right,” answered the girl.