Reed
Opdyke accepted him in mirthful gratitude to the Providence which had
arranged so equable a _quid pro quo_. Prather was manifestly out for
copy, despite his constant disavowals of what he termed an envious
slander hatched by Philistine minds. Reed Opdyke's sense of humour was
still sufficiently acute to assure him that there was every possibility
that, at some more or less remote period, he would find a full-length
portrait of himself in Prather's pages, a portrait all the more easily
recognizable by reason of the disguises which would draw attention to
the essential human fact hidden behind their veils. On the other hand,
however, Prather himself was offering to Reed no small amusement. To a
man used to the wide spaces of the mountain landscapes, to the vast
secrets hidden within the bowels of the mines, it seemed little short
of the incredible that any human being at all worthy of the name could
be so infinitely fussy over trifles, could wear himself to shreds over
framing a bit of repartee, could spend a tortured morning, reducing to
the limits of a rhythmic paragraph the illimitable glories of the earth
and sky. And the ways by which he sought to carry out his achievement!
These baffled any comprehension born of Opdyke's brain.

The day after the doctor's expressed anxiety as concerned the Brenton
baby, Prather, coming to call, was more than ordinarily specific.

"My dear fellow, I am tired to death," he said, as he sat down at
Opdyke's side, hitched up his trousers to prevent unseemly bagging and
smoothed his coat into position.

"Working?" Reed queried.

"Like a dog. At least, that's the accepted phrase. The fact is, my
terrier snored aloud, all the time I was about it. No. I assure you, I
didn't read my stuff to him, as I went on." And Prather paused to laugh
merrily at his own humour. Indeed, it was his own appreciation of his
humour which led him to his frequent calls on Reed, for the little man
was generous at heart, and loath to waste a really clever thing, when
it might be doing untold good. "But still," he went on; "it shows the
fallacy of the phrase. I work like a dog, and the real dog slumbers.
Good joke, that! But, for a fact, I have been working."

"Another novel?"

"Yes. I tell the publishers it must be my swan song. Really, I am
getting an old man. But they refuse to see it; I expect they will keep
me in harness till I am--in my dotage," he added, with a reckless
disregard of any possible