The little book, as
Amy called it, was a pamphlet issued by the literary club of which she
was the secretary, and never since the time when he set his first line
of type, had Dick been so bothered over a bit of printing. The sweet
brown eyes and smiling lips of the young woman were constantly coming
between him and his work, and he paused often to carry on an imaginary
conversation with her. Sometimes he told her funny incidents from his
adventurous past and heard her laugh in keen appreciation. Then they
talked of more earnest things and her face grew grave and thoughtful.
Again he told her all his plans and ambitions, and saw her eyes light
with sympathy as she gladly promised her helpful friendship. Then,
inspired by her interest, he grew bolder, and forgetting the task
before him altogether, fought life's battles in the light of her smiles,
conquering every difficulty, and winning for himself a place and name
among men. And then, as he laid his trophies at her feet, her father,
the wealthy merchant, appeared, and Dick walked the floor in a blind
rage.
But he managed to finish his work at last, and about three o'clock,
tumbled on to his cot in the stock room, where he spent the rest of
the night trying to rescue Amy from her father, who assumed the shape
of a hardware dragon, with gold eyes, and had imprisoned the young
lady in a log cabin near the river, beneath a hill upon which grew a
pine tree tipped with fire, while a lean hound sat at the water's edge
and howled.
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