The labour was as great. At times,
as he retraced once more and yet again ground already covered, his
patience was overcome by a great weariness; almost the elemental
obstinacy of the man wore him down. Then his very soul clamoured within
him with the desire to cut all this short, to cry out impatiently
against the slow stupidity or mulishness, or avariciousness, or whatever
it was, that permitted the old man to agree to every one of the
premises, but to balk finally at the conclusion. The night wore on. Bob
realized that it was now or never; that he must take advantage of this
receptive mood a combination of skill and luck had gained for him. The
old man must be held to the point. The candle burned out. The room grew
chill. Samuels threw an armful of pitch pine on the smouldering logs of
the fireplace that balanced the massive cook stove. By its light the
discussion went on. The red flames reflected strangely from unexpected
places, showing the oddest inconsequences. Bob, at times, found himself
drifting into noticing these things. He stared for a moment hypnotically
on the incongruous juxtaposition of a skillet and an ink bottle.
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