"If a fellow feels like
inventing, he simply must invent something, whether it amounts to
anything or not," he had explained to Ernestine.
He did not read consecutively to-night, but just a line here and there,
getting a little of wit, a little of philosophy, a dash or two of
sarcasm, an occasional gleam of sentiment; he liked to take it that way
at times like this; it seemed if not one thing, then surely another, must
keep him from the things into which it would be so easy to slip to-night.
"Restless activity proves the man!"--several times his fingers went over
that, and his responsive face told that to his mind it brought a poignant
meaning, and to his heart an understanding and a sadness. He closed the
book, and sat there thinking. He seemed very self-contained--quiet,
poised, but the understanding eye would have known that he was thinking
deep thoughts, facing hard truths.
Once at a horse race he had seen a horse which had just been lamed tied
near the track. It heard the ringing of the gong, heard the music of the
other horses' feet, heard, saw, smelled, sensed in every way the race
that was going on.
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