“Well, I would not risk my life for a dog.” And Emmons’s voice replied: “A pretty even risk. Bob Lee against a blind puppy.”
The sentence fell coldly on Nellie’s enthusiasm. Her heart beat quickly with something very like contempt for the speaker. Nearby, the child and the mother dog were holding a solemn thanksgiving, utterly indifferent to the excitement about them. Nellie preferred their society. She had had some thought of saying a word to her cousin, but something held her back. There seemed a sort of meanness in keeping herself aloof from him at home, and then stepping out to share his public triumphs.
As she moved back she found herself near Overton, who was talking to Mr. Fowler, the Presbyterian clergyman.
“The fellow’s as wild as a hawk, Fowler,” Overton was saying, “and yet I rather like him.”
“It was a brave action,” returned the clergyman dubiously.
“Aye,” said Overton, noting the hesitation; “a good many of the brave actions of this world have been done by those the church damned in the next.”
“I think,” answered the clergyman tartly, “that it takes some courage to be merely good, Mr. Overton. Morality is a kind of courage.”
Overton laughed. “I’m not so sure of that,” he said; “but I rather think courage is a kind of morality.”
The sentence impressed itself on Nellie’s mind. She admired Mr. Overton, and was accustomed to give attention to anything he said. Of course, courage was a kind of morality—Bob’s kind—not so difficult and praiseworthy as a steady industry, like James Emmons’s; but, oh, so much more interesting!
She amused herself listening to the different comments on her cousin’s action. She noticed, for the first time, how such unlikely phrases as “the young fool,” or “well, if that isn’t the darndest,” could be made to express a very poignant form of masculine admiration. She chuckled softly to herself: “it certainly was the darndest,” she repeated, deriving no little pleasure from the unaccustomed form of words.