Grant turned his eyes from
Craig, for there were tears in them. "I don't see why you like me,
either, Josh," said he. "But you do--and--damn it all, I'd die for
you."
"I guess you'll come pretty near dying of shame before this
evening's over," laughed Craig. "This is the first time in my life
I ever was in a fashionable company."
"There's nothing to be frightened about," Grant assured him.
"Frightened!" Josh laughed boisterously--Arkwright could have
wished he would temper that laugh. "I--frightened by a bunch of
popinjays? You see, it's not really in the least important whether
they like me or not--at least, not to me. I'll get there, anyhow.
And when I do, I'll deal with them according to their deserts. So
they'd better hustle to get solid with me."
In the two years since he had seen Craig, Arkwright had almost
forgotten his habit of bragging and blowing about himself--what he
had done, what he was going to do. The newspapers, the clippings
Josh sent him, had kept him informed of the young Minnesotan's
steady, rapid rise in politics; and whenever he recalled the
absurd boasting that had made him feel Craig would never come to
anything, he assumed it was a weakness of youth and inexperience
which had, no doubt, been conquered.
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