34
THE BOSS OF LITTLE ARCADY
Northward, in the gathering dusk, came a solitary figure walking rapidly—a slight, nervous figure, a soft hat drawn well over the face, the skirts of its coat streaming to the breeze. As it passed me, I recognized Solon Denney. He was gesticulating with some violence, and I could see his expressive face work as if he uttered words to himself. I thought it possible that he might be composing a piece for his newspaper. Instantly there came to my mind that rather coarse paraphrase of Westley Keyts—"A hand of mush in a glove of the same!"
I did not intrude upon my friend as he passed.
