But Sam
believed himself entirely indifferent both to his literary failure,
and to his father's scolding. Neither was in his mind as he climbed
the hill, and halted for a wistful moment at the green gate in the
hedge; but he had no glimpse of Mrs. Richie.
He found his grandfather sitting on the veranda behind the big white
columns, reading aloud, and gesticulating with one hand:
"'But if proud Mortimer do wear this crown,
Heaven turn it to a blaze of quenchless fire
Or like the snaky wreath of Sisiphon--'"
He looked up irritably at the sound of a step on the weedy driveway,
then his eyes snapped with delight.
"Hullo--hullo! what's this?"
"I had to come back, grandfather," Sam said.
"Well! Well!" said Benjamin Wright, his whole face wrinkling with
pleasure. "'Had to come back?' Money gave out, I suppose? Sit down,
sit down! Hi, Simmons! Damn that nigger. Simmons, here's Master Sam.
What have you got for supper? Well, young man, did you get some sense
knocked into you?" He was trembling with eagerness. Marlowe, in worm-
eaten calf, dropped from his hand to the porch floor. Sam picked the
book up, and sat down.
"If you wanted some more money, why the devil didn't you say so?"
"I had money enough, sir."
"Well--what about the drama?" his grandfather demanded.
"He said it was no good."
"Who said it was no good?" Mr. Wright pulled off his hat, fiercely,
and began to chew orange-skin.
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