I should not have wished him back in
Little Arcady, but I did breathe a prayer that he might in some early
Greek elysium be indeed "Potts forever." Might it not be? Had not that
other paper on "the message of Emerson" hinted of "compensation" in a
jargon that sounded authoritative?
And now, as I breakfasted, my attention was invited anew to that
fateful, never ending extension of the Potts-made ripples in our little
pool. I was threatened with the loss of my domestic stay; again might I
be forced to the City Hotel's refectory of a thousand blended smells and
spotty table-linen; or even to irksome adventure at the board of the
self-lauded Budd.
There was selfish wonder in my heart as I listened to Clem, who, now
that my second cup of coffee competed with the May blossoms, stood by to
tell me of his worldly advancement and the nearing of a time when Miss
Caroline should come among us to be independent.
His stubborn industry had counted. The vegetable and melon crop of the
year before had been abundant and well sold, despite sundry raids upon
the latter by nameless boys, who, he assured me, "hain't had no raght
raisin'." And he had further swelled that hoard of "reglah gole money"
in Bundy's bank by his performances of house-cleaning, catering, and his
work as janitor; not a little, too, by sales of the fish he caught.
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