He would sit on Hollister's porch with a
pipe sagging one corner of his mouth and gaze placidly at the river,
the hills, the far stretch of the forest,--and Hollister knew that to
Bland it was so much water, so much up-piled rock and earth, so much
growing wood. He would say to Myra: "My dear, it's time we were going
home", or "I think I shall have a go at that big pool in Graveyard
Creek to-morrow", or "I say, Hollister, if this warm weather keeps on,
the bears will be coming out soon, eh?", and between whiles he would
sit silently puffing at his pipe, a big, heavy, handsome man, wearing
soiled overalls and a shabby coat with a curious dignity. He spoke of
"family" and "breeding" as if these were sacred possessions which
conferred upon those who had them complete immunity from the sort of
effort that common men must make.
"He really believes that," Myra said to Hollister once. "No Bland ever
had to work. They have always had property--they have always been
superior people. Jim's an anachronism, really. He belongs in the
Middle Ages when the barons did the fighting and the commoners did the
work.
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