I felt as fresh as if I had mowed only once around the field, to quote a saying of my uncle.

“We’ll have to fight it out some other day,” he said.  “I’m weak from the loss of blood.  My nose feels as if it was turned wrong side out.”

“It ought to be used to the grindstone after two years of practise,” I remarked.  “Come down to the brook and let me wash the blood off you.”

Without a word he followed me and I washed his face as gently as I could and did my best to clean his shirt and waistcoat with my handkerchief.  His nose was badly swollen.

“Latour, women have been good to me,” I said.  “I’ve been taught to think that a man who treats them badly is the basest of all men.  I can’t help it.  The feeling has gone into my bones.  I’ll fight you as often as I hear you talk as you did.”

He reeled with weakness as he started toward his horse.  I helped him into the saddle.

“I guess I’m not as bad as I talk,” he remarked.

If it were so he must have revised his view of that distinction which he had been lying to achieve.  It was a curious type of vanity quite new to me then.

Young Mr. Latour fell behind me as we rode on.  The silence was broken presently by “Mr. Purvis,” who said: 

“You can hit like the hind leg of a horse.  I never sees more speed an’ gristle in a feller o’ your age.”

“Nobody could swing the scythe and the ax as much as I have without getting some gristle, and the schoolmaster taught me how to use it,” I answered.  “But there’s one thing that no man ought to be conceited about.”

“What’s that?”

“His own gristle.  I remember Mr. Hacket told me once that the worst kind of a fool was the man who was conceited over his fighting power and liked to talk about it.  If I ever get that way I hope that I shall have it licked out of me.”

“I never git conceited—­not that I ain’t some reason to be,” said Mr. Purvis with a highly serious countenance.  He seemed to have been blind to that disparity between his acts and sayings which had distinguished him in Lickitysplit.

I turned my head away to hide my smiles and we rode on in silence.

“I guess I’ve got somethin’ here that is cocollated to please ye,” he said.

He took a letter from his pocket and gave it to me.  My heart beat faster when I observed that the superscription on the envelope was in Sally’s handwriting.  The letter, which bore neither signature nor date line, contained these words: 

     “Will you please show this to Mr. Barton Baynes?  I hope it will
     convince him that there is one who still thinks of the days of the
     past and of the days that are coming—­especially one day.”