“You wasn’t selfish when you set up with my father most every night for two weeks,” said Shocky as he handed the old man a splint.

“Yes, I was, too!” This in a tone that made Ralph tremble.  “Your father was a miserable Britisher.  I’d fit red-coats, in the war of eighteen-twelve, and lost my leg by one of ’em stickin’ his dog-on’d bagonet right through it, that night at Lundy’s Lane; but my messmate killed him though which is a satisfaction to think on.  And I didn’t like your father ’cause he was a Britisher.  But ef he’d a died right here in this free country, ’though nobody to give him a drink of water, blamed ef I wouldn’t a been ashamed to set on the platform at a Fourth of July barbecue, and to hold up my wooden leg fer to make the boys cheer!  That was the selfishest thing I ever done.  We’re all selfish akordin’ to my tell.”

“You wasn’t selfish when you took me that night, you know,” and Shocky’s face beamed with gratitude.

“Yes, I war, too, you little sass-box!  What did I take you fer?  Hey?  Bekase I didn’t like Pete Jones nor Bill Jones.  They’re thieves, dog-on ’em!”

Ralph shivered a little.  The horse with the white forefoot and white nose galloped before his eyes again.

“They’re a set of thieves.  That’s what they air.”

“Please, Mr. Pearson, be careful.  You’ll get into trouble, you know, by talking that way,” said Miss Hawkins.  “You’re just like a man that I knew at the East.”

“Why, do you think an old soldier like me, hobbling on a wooden leg, is afraid of them thieves?  Didn’t I face the Britishers?  Didn’t I come home late last Wednesday night?  I rather guess I must a took a little too much at Welch’s grocery, and laid down in the middle of the street to rest.  The boys thought ‘twas funny to crate[20] me.  I woke up kind o’ cold, ‘bout one in the mornin.’  ’Bout two o’clock I come up Means’s hill, and didn’t I see Pete Jones, and them others that robbed the Dutchman, and somebody, I dunno who, a-crossin’ the blue-grass paster towards Jones’s?” (Ralph shivered.) “Don’t shake your finger at me, old woman.  Tongue is all I’ve got to fight with now; but I’ll fight them thieves tell the sea goes dry, I will.  Shocky, gim me a splint.”

“But you wasn’t selfish when you tuck me.  Shocky stuck to his point most positively.

“Yes, I was, you little tow-headed fool!  I didn’t take you kase I was good, not a bit of it.  I hated Bill Jones what keeps the poor-house, and I knowed him and Pete would get you bound to some of their click, and I didn’t want no more thieves raised; so when your mother hobbled, with you a-leadin’ her, poor blind thing! all the way over here on that winter night, and said, ’Mr. Pearson, you’re all the friend I’ve got, and I want you to save my boy,’ why, you see I was selfish as ever I could be in takin’ of you.  Your mother’s cryin’ sot me a-cryin’ too.  We’re all selfish in everything, akordin’ to my tell.  Blamed ef we ha’n’t, Miss Hawkins, only sometimes I’d think you was real benev’lent ef I didn’t know we war all selfish.”