For five years his introspections had
monotonously hurled one word at him: "Failure; Failure! Failure!" He
thought the sunsets were making him morbid. Could he have shared them,
that would have been different.
His long, melancholy face grew longer and more melancholy in the twilight,
while William Todd patiently whittled near by. Plattville had often
discussed the editor's habit of silence, and Mr. Martin had suggested that
possibly the reason Mr. Harkless was such a quiet man was that there was
nobody for him to talk to. His hearers did not agree, for the population
of Carlow County was a thing of pride, being greater than that of several
bordering counties. They did agree, however, that Harkless's quiet was not
unkind, whatever its cause, and that when it was broken it was usually
broken to conspicuous effect. Perhaps it was because he wrote so much that
he hated to talk.
A bent figure came slowly down the street, and William hailed it
cheerfully: "Evening, Mr. Fisbee."
"A good evening, Mr. Todd," answered the old man, pausing. "Ah, Mr.
Harkless, I was looking for you." He had not seemed to be looking for
anything beyond the boundaries of his own dreams, but he approached
Harkless, tugging nervously at some papers in his pocket. "I have
completed my notes for our Saturday edition. It was quite easy; there is
much doing.
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