They forgot Smith's bruised nose and swollen eye in fearing his awful temper.

All the swearing he wanted to do and dared not do at Albert, he did at his inoffensive subordinates.
Smith Westcott had the dumps.

No sentimental heart-break over Katy, though he did miss her company sadly in a town where there were no amusements, not even a concert-saloon in which a refined young man could pass an evening.

If he had been in New York now, he wouldn't have minded it.

But in a place like Metropolisville, a stupid little frontier village of pious and New Englandish tendencies--in such a place, as Smith pathetically explained to a friend, one can't get along without a sweetheart, you know.
A few days after Albert's row with Westcott he met George Gray, the Hoosier Poet, who had haunted Metropolisville, off and on, ever since he had first seen the "angel." He looked more wild and savage than usual.
"Hello! my friend," said Charlton heartily.