"I called that a magnificent boast once--about your being editor of the
_Post_. Do you remember? Isn't it time I was confessing that you have
got the better of me?"
"I think it is too soon," he answered, in his quietest voice, "to say
whether I have got the better of you, or you have got the better of
me."
Sharlee looked off down the street. "But you certainly will be editor of
the _Post_ some day."
"As I recall it, we did not speak only of editorial writing that night."
"Oh, listen ...!"
From far away floated the strains of "Dixie," crashed out by forty
bands. The crowd on the sidewalks stirred; prolonged shouts went up; and
now all those who were seated on the porch arose at one motion and came
forward.
Sharlee had to spring up to greet still another relative. She came back
in a moment, sincerely hoping that Mr. Queed would resume the
conversation which her exclamation had interrupted. But he spoke of
quite a different matter, a faint cloud on his intelligent brow.
"You should hear Professor Nicolovius on these veterans of yours."
"What does he say about them? Something hateful, I'm sure.
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