United States -- History -- Civil War, 1861-1865 -- Fiction; United States -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction
As Homer Sage remarked that evening on the stoop of the Excelsior Hotel,
this event made the departure of Battery G seem by comparison very small
potatoes indeed.
It was impossible for the twain not to realize that everybody was
looking at them, as they made their way up the shady side of the main
street. But there is another language of the hands than that taught
in deaf-mute schools, and Julia’s hand seemed to tell Marsena’s arm
distinctly that she didn’t care a bit. As for him, after that first
nervous minute or two, the experience was all joy--joy so profound and
overwhelming that he could only ponder it in dazzled silence. It is true
that Julia was talking--rattling on with sprightly volubility about all
sorts of things--but to Marsena her remarks no more invited answers
than does so much enthralling music. When she stopped for a breath he
did not remember what she had been saying. He only knew how he felt.
“I wish you’d come straight to the gallery with me,” he said; “I’d like
first-rate to make a real picture of you--by yourself.”
*****
“Well, I swow!” remarked Mr. Newton Shull, along in the later afternoon;
“I didn’t expect we’d make our salt to-day, with Marsena away pretty
near the whole forenoon, and all the folks down to the depot, and here
it turns out way the best day we’ve had yet. Actually had to send people
away!”
“Guess that didn’t worry him much,” commented the boy, from where he sat
on the work-bench swinging his legs in idleness.
Mr. Shull nodded his head suggestively. “No, I dare say not,” he said.
“I kind o’ begrudge not bein’ an operator myself, when such setters as
that come in. She must have been up there a full two hours--them two
all by themselves--and the countrymen loafin’ around out in the
reception-room there, stompin’ their feet and grindin’ their teeth, jest
tired to death o’ waitin’. It went agin my grain to tell them last two
lots they’d have to come some other day; but--I dunno--perhaps it’s
jest as well. They’ll go and tell it around that we’ve got more’n we can
do--and that’s good for business. But, all the same, it seemed to me as
if he took considerable more time than was really needful. He can turn
out four farmers in fifteen minutes, if he puts on a spurt; and here he
was a full two hours, and only five pictures of her to show for it.”
“Six,” said the boy.
“Yes, so it was--countin’ the one with her hair let down,” Mr. Shull
admitted. “I dunno whether that one oughtn’t to be a little extry. I
thought o’ tellin’ her that it would be, on account of so much hair
consumin’ more chemicals; but--I dunno--somehow--she sort o’ looked as
if she knew better. Did you ever notice them eyes o’ hern, how they look
as if they could see straight through you, and out on the other side?”
The boy shook his head. “I don’t bother my head about women,” he said.
“Got somethin’ better to do.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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