"Yes, just as though it was yesterday. You said I was due for a crisis, and I was weak enough to be convinced otherwise."
"Well—it so happened that I hit the nail on the head. You have been through fifteen years of fire and tribulations. I believe you have not only been fashioned into a splendid, valuable tool, but have been pretty well tempered, ground and whetted to a fine cutting edge. But it may be possible a little more fire is necessary to draw the temper to a point where it won't nick or crumble when it strikes something very hard. Do you understand me, Howard?"
"Yes, perfectly. I have made and tempered steel-cutting tools and know exactly what you mean," he replied eagerly.
"Well, you were about thirty then; you are forty-five now, and it may be you are in for another little time, through which your natural and acquired bigness will carry you safely, but not without serious effort."
"I understand; go ahead," he urged, moving uneasily.
"Howard, no really big, useful man can afford to harbor even thoughts of revenge or bear malice or hatred toward anyone. But you have a right, in fact it is a duty, to hate the hellish or the evil in anyone."
"I see the distinction—go ahead." His eyelids twitched nervously.
"Now I'm going to put to the test your Southern blood—the vital Georgia Cracker blood that has carried you through and brought you out on top. You have just told me you still hate, fiercely hate, this man Ramund?"