Part 34 (2/2)

”No,” sez Horace. ”That's Greek; an' the original Promotheus was an all around top-notcher. He was a giant, so you couldn't complain none on your size; he rebelled again' the powers, so you couldn't call him a dog-robber; but the thing 'at you two are closest together in, is your infernal stubbornness. They tried to break Promotheus down by chainin' him to a rock while the vultures fed on his liver, but they couldn't make him give in. 'Pity the slaves who take the yoke,' sez he; 'but don't pity me who still have my own self-respect.'”

Badger-face was so blame weak that his eyes filled up with tears at this; an' the only way he could straighten himself up was to put a few florid curses on his own thumby left-handedness; but Olaf had gone after some wood, so it didn't start anything. ”I'll take that name,”

sez he, ”an' I'll learn how to spell an' p.r.o.nounce it as soon as I can; but you've diluted down my blood so confounded thin with your doggone, sloppy milk diet that I'm a long way from havin' that feller's grit, right at this minute.”

Horace stood over Badger-face, an' pointed his finger at him, fierce.

”Listen to me,” sez he. ”The next time you heave out an insult to milksops or milk diets, I'll sing you my entire song-to the very last word.”

We set up a howl; but Badger-face didn't realize all he was up against when he took on with Horace, so he only smiled in a sickly way, an'

looked puzzled.

”I'll tell ya what I'm willin' to do, d.i.n.ky,” said he, as soon as we stopped our noise; ”now that I've took a new name, I don't need to wear this sort of a beard any more, an', if ya want me to, I'll trim it up the same fool way 'at you wear yours; an' I'll wear gla.s.ses, too, if you say the word.”

”We'll wait first to see how you look in a biled s.h.i.+rt,” sez Horace; ”but in honor of your new name, I'm goin' to let you have some deer-meat soup for your dinner, an' a bone to gnaw on.”

We had a regular feast that day, and called Badger-face Promotheus every time we could think up an excuse; so as to have practice on the name. The Friar did his best to take part; but I knew every line in his face, and it hurt me to see him fightin' at himself.

After dinner we took a walk together; but we didn't talk none until we had climbed the rim, fought the wind for a couple of hours, an'

started back again. It was his plan to think of some big, common chunk of life when he was in trouble, so as to take his mind as much as possible off himself; and he started to talk about Horace an'

Promotheus. He even laughed a little at the combination which Promotheus Flannigan an' Horace Walpole Bradford would make when they settled down on the East again.

”The more I think it over,” said the Friar, ”the plainer I can see that most of our sorrow an' pain and savageness comes from our custom of punis.h.i.+n' the crops instead of the farmers. Look at the possibilities the' was in Promotheus when he started out. He has a strong nature, and in spite of his life, he still has a lot o' decent humanity in him. Who can tell what he might have been, if his good qualities had been cultivated instead o' smothered?”

”That's true enough,” sez I; ”and look at Horace, too. They simply let him wither up for forty years, and yet all this time he had in him full as much devilment as Promotheus himself.”

”Oh, we waste, we waste, we waste!” exclaimed the Friar. ”Instead o'

usin' the strength and vigor of our manhood in a n.o.ble way, we let some of it rust and decay, and some of it we use for our own destruction. The outlaw would have been the hero with the same opportunity, and who can tell what powers lie hidden behind the mask of idleness!”

”Well, that's just it,” sez I. ”A human bein' is like a keg o' black stuff. For years it may sit around perfectly harmless; and only when the right spark pops into it can we tell whether it's black sand or blastin' powder. Even Horace, himself, thought he was black sand; but he turned out to be a mighty high grade o' powder.”

We walked on a while without talkin'; but the Friar was wrastlin' with his own thoughts, an' finally he stopped an' asked me as solemn as though I was the boss o' that whole country: ”If you had started a lot o' work, and part of it promised to yield a rich harvest with the right care, and part of it looked as though it might sink back to worse than it had been in the beginnin'-is there anything in the world which could make you give it up?”

The Friar knew my life as well as I did; so I didn't have to do any pertendin' with him. ”Yes,” I sez, ”the right woman would.”

The Friar didn't do any pertendin' with me either. He stood, shakin'

his head slowly from side to side. ”I wish I knew, I wish I knew,” he said.

We walked on again, an' when we came in sight o' the cabin, I sez to him, in order to give him a chance to free his mind if he saw fit: ”Horace told me what he knew about it.”

”Yes, I know,” sez the Friar; ”but no one knew very much. She was a splendid brave girl, Happy. I had known her when she was a little girl and I a farmer boy. I was much older than she was, but I was allus interested in her. There wasn't one thing they could say against her-and yet they drove her out o' my life. I thought she was dead, I heard that she was dead; so I buried her in my heart, and came out here where life was strong and young, because I could not work back there. I tried to work in the slums of the cities; but I could not conquer my own bitterness, with the rich wastin' and the poor starvin'

all about me. I have found joy in my life out here; but she has come to life again with that picture, and once more I am at war with myself.”

”Well, I'll bet my eyes, Friar,” sez I, ”that you find the right answer; but I haven't got nerve enough to advise ya-though I will say that if it was me, I'd pike out an' look for the girl.”

”I wish I knew, I wish I knew,” was all the Friar said.

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