Part 10 (1/2)

”I'd rather stay up--the air's better, and you can see so much farther,” said Laurence. And he added hospitably: ”There's plenty of room--come on up, yourself!”

”With one leg?” sarcastically.

”And two eyes,” said the boy. ”Come on up--the sky's fine!” And he laughed into the half-suspicious face.

The gimlet eyes bored into him, and the frank and truthful eyes met them unabashed, unwavering, with a something in them which made the other blink.

”When I got pitched into this burg,” said the lame man thoughtfully, ”I landed all there--except a leg, but I never carried my brains in my legs. I hadn't got any bats in my belfry. But I'm getting 'em. I'm getting 'em so bad that when I hear some folks talk bughouse these days it pretty near listens like good sense to me. Why, kid, I'm nut enough now to dangle over the edge of believing you know what you're talking about!”

”Fall over: I _know_ I know what I'm talking about,” said Laurence magnificently.

”I'm double-crossed,” said John Flint, soberly and sadly, ”Anyway I look at it--” he swept the horizon with a wide-flung gesture, ”it's bugs for mine. I began by grannying bugs for _him_,” he tossed his head bull-like in my direction, ”and I stand around swallowing hot air from _you_--” He glared at Laurence, ”and what's the result? Why, that I've got bugs in the bean, that's what! Think of me licking an all-day sucker a kid dopes out! _Me!_ Oh, he--venly saints!” he gulped. ”Ain't I the nut, though?”

”Well, supposing?” said Laurence, laughing. ”Buck up! You _could_ be a bad egg instead of a good nut, you know!”

John Flint's eyes slitted, then widened; his mouth followed suit almost automatically. He looked at me.

”Can you beat it?” he wondered.

”Beating a bad egg would be a waste of time I wouldn't be guilty of,”

said I amusedly. ”But I hope to live to see the good nut grow into a fine tree.”

”Do your d.a.m.nedest--excuse me, parson!” said he contritely. ”I mean, don't stop for a little thing like _me_!”

Laurence leaned forward. ”Man,” said he, impressively, ”he won't have to! You'll be marking time and keeping step with him yourself before you know it!”

”Huh!” said John Flint, non-committally.

Laurence came to spend his last evening at home with us.

”Padre,” said he, when we walked up and down in the garden, after an old custom, after dinner, ”do you really know what I mean to do when I've finished college and start out on my own hook?”

”Put 'Mayne & Son' on the judge's s.h.i.+ngle and walk around the block forty times a day to look at it!” said I, promptly.

”Of course,” said he. ”That first. But a legal s.h.i.+ngle can be turned into as handy a weapon as one could wish for, Padre, and _I'm_ going to take that s.h.i.+ngle and spank this sleepy-headed old town wide awake with it!” He spoke with the conviction of youth, so sure of itself that there is no room for doubt. There was in him, too, a hint of latent power which was impressive. One did not laugh at Laurence.

”It's my town,” with his chin out. ”It could be a mighty good town.

It's going to become one. I expect to live all my life right here, among my own people, and they've got to make it worth my while. I don't propose to cut myself down to fit any little hole: I intend to make that hole big enough to fit my possible measure.”

”May an old friend wish more power to your shovel?”

”It'll be a steam shovel!” said he, gaily. Then his face clouded.

”Padre! I'm sick of the way things are run in Appleboro! I've talked with other boys and they're sick of it, too. You know why they want to get away? Because they think they haven't got even a fighting chance here. Because towns like this are like billion-ton old wagons sunk so deep in mudruts that nothing but dynamite can blow them out--and they are not dealers in dynamite. If they want to do anything that even _looks_ new they've got to fight the stand-patters to a finish, and they're blockaded by a lot of reactionaries that don't know the earth's moving. There are a lot of folks in the South, Padre, who've been dead since the civil war, and haven't found it out themselves, and won't take live people's word for it. Well, now, I mean to _do_ things. I mean to do them right here. And I certainly shan't allow myself to be blockaded by anybody, living or dead. You've got to fight the devil with fire;--I'm going to blockade those blockaders, and see that the dead ones are decently buried.”

”You have tackled a big job, my son.”

”I like big jobs, Padre. They're worth while. Maybe I'll be able to keep some of the boys home--the town needs them. Maybe I can keep some of those poor kids out of the mills, too. Oh, yes, I expect a right lively time!”

I was silent. I knew how supinely Appleboro lay in the hollow of a hard hand. I had learned, too, how such a hand can close into a strangling fist.