I shifted in my seat
uneasily. I looked up. There stood, in the doorway, the lusty young
farmer who was in for stealing the bales of cotton. He wore an evil,
combative leer on his face. He was "spoiling" for a quarrel--just for
the mere sake of quarrelling--that I could see. But I dissembled.
"Well, Jack?" I asked gently.
"You're a nice one," he muttered, "you pale-faced Yankee son of a b----
... think you're better 'n the rest of us, don't ye?... readin' in yore
books?"
"Nonsense, what are you picking at me for? I'm not harming anybody, am
I?"
"No, but you're a God damned fool!"
"Look here, what have I ever done to you?"
"Nothin', only you're a white-livered stinker, an' I'm jest a-spoilin'
foh a fight with you-all."
"But I don't want to fight with you."
"I'll make you," he replied, striding in; and fetching me a cuff on the
ear ... then, in a far-away voice that did not seem myself, I heard
myself pleading to be let alone ... by this time all the other boys had
crowded down about the cell to see the fun.
I was humiliated, ashamed ... but, try as I would, the thought and
vision of my uncle came on me like a palsy.
Bud stepped up. He had always been so meek and placid before that what
he did then was a surprise to me.
"_I'll_ fight!"
"What! you?" glowered the young farmer, surprised.
"Yes, I'll give you all the fighting you want, you dirty cotton thief!"
Instantly the farmer made at him.
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