The loggers pulled off their boots and got into their bunks, where some of them lay and smoked, while others fell asleep directly. Bartley made some indirect approaches to Kinney for sympathy in the snub which he had received, and which rankled in his mind with unabated keenness. But Kinney did not respond. “Your bed's ready,” he said. “You can turn in whenever you like.” “What's the matter?” asked Bartley. “Nothing's the matter, if you say so,” answered Kinney, going about some preparations for the morning's breakfast. Bartley looked at his resentful back. He saw that he was hurt, and he surmised that Kinney suspected him of making fun of his eccentricities to Mrs. Macallister. He _had_ laughed at Kinney, and tried to amuse her with him; but he could not have made this appear as harmless as it was. He rose from the bench on which he had been sitting, and shut with a click the penknife with which he had been cutting a pattern on its edge. “I shall have to say good night to you, I believe,” he said, going to the peg on which Kinney had hung his hat and overcoat. He had them on, and was buttoning the coat in an angry tremor before Kinney looked up and realized what his guest was about. “Why, what--why, where--you goin'?” he faltered in dismay. “To Equity,” said Bartley, feeling in his coat pockets for his gloves, and drawing them on, without looking at Kinney, whose great hands were in a pan of dough. “Why--why--no, you aint!” he protested, with a revulsion of feeling that swept away all his resentment, and left him nothing but remorse for his inhospitality. “No?” said Bartley, putting up the collar of the first ulster worn by a native in that region. “Why, look here!” cried Kinney, pulling his hands out of the dough, and making a fruitless effort to cleanse them upon each other. “I don't want you to go, this way.” “Don't you? I'm sorry to disoblige you; but I'm going,” said Bartley. Kinney tried to laugh. “Why, Hubbard,--why, Bartley,--why, Bart!” he exclaimed. “What's the matter with you? I aint mad!” “You have an unfortunate manner, then. Good night.” He strode out between the bunks, full of snoring loggers. Kinney hurried after him, imploring and protesting in a low voice, trying to get before him, and longing to lay his floury paws upon him and detain him by main force, but even in his distress respecting Bartley's overcoat too much to touch it. He followed him out into the freezing air in his shirt-sleeves, and besought him not to be such a fool. “It makes me feel like the devil!” he exclaimed, pitifully. “You come back, now, half a minute, and I'll make it all right with you. I know I can; you're a gentleman, and you'll understand. _Do_ come back! I shall never get over it if you don't!” “I'm sorry,” said Bartley, “but I'm not going back. Good night.”