"So does I. But Joe, hit's jest on yore own account thet I'd like ter
see ye show more sperit. Folks talks erbout _you_ too. I know what
blood ye've got, commandin' blood--an' ef ye got roused up onc't hit'd
mek a more upstandin' man of ye. I knows hit's a lie, but I've heered
ye called ther disablest feller on Shoulder-blade!"
A touch of contempt stole into her voice as she added, "An' yore paw's
only son!"
He went away somewhat sulkily, but she had ignited in him a spark of
needed torture. Bred of a fighting line, the acid of self-scorn began
eating into his pride, and when a few days later he halted at a wayside
smithy, which was really only a "blind-tiger," and came upon a drinking
crowd, the ferment of his thoughts developed into action.
Sol Breck was sitting with his back turned as the boy strolled in and
it chanced that he was talking about Alexander. The girl herself with
her square sense of justice, would have recognized his comments as
crude jesting and would have passed them by unresented.
But Joe had been bitterly accusing himself of timidity and he needed
sustenance for his waning faith in his own temerity.
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