"
But Holker was not cross--not when dinner was served; nobody was
cross--certainly not Peter, who was in his gayest mood; and
certainly not Ruth or Jack, who babbled away next to each other.
Peter's heart swelled with pride and satisfaction as he saw the
change which two years of hard work had made in Jack--not only in
his bearing and in a certain fearless independence which had
become a part of his personality, but in the unmistakable note of
joyousness which flowed out of him, so marked in contrast to the
depression which used to haunt him like a spectre. Stories of his
life at his boarding-house--vaguely christened a hotel by its
landlady, Mrs. Hicks--bubbled out of the boy as well as accounts
of various escapades among the men he worked with--especially the
younger engineers and one of the foremen who had rooms next his
own--all told with a gusto and ring that kept the table in shouts
of merriment--Morris laughing loudest and longest, Peter
whispering behind his hand to Miss Felicia:
"Charming, isn't he?--and please note, my dear, that none of the
dirt from his shovel seems to have clogged his wit--" at which
there was another merry laugh--Peter's, this time, his being the
only voice in evidence.
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