He desires nothing so little, I need not tell you. In the
infernal din of this town he looks at me and would sell his
soul for the sound of an English voice--even his worst enemy's.
It is torture, and he will break down if I don't give him a
holiday. The curious part of it is that, under this twist of
the screw, he has apparently found some resource of pluck.
He doesn't entreat, though it is killing him with quite curious
rapidity. I must give him a holiday to-morrow."
I piece it out from later letters that from New York they harked out
and harked back, to and from various excursions--quite ordinary ones.
I might, if it were worth while, construct the itinerary; but it
would take a lot of useless labour and yield nothing of importance.
If Farrell, under this careful slackness of pursuit, had made a bolt
for Texas or Alaska, the chronicle just here might be worth reciting.
But he didn't, and it isn't. Buffalo--Long Island--Newport--and, in
one of Jack's letters, Chicago for farthest West--occur in a miz-maze
fashion.
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