There was not one drop of cowardly blood in Brad’s body. If, on account of his assumed bluster and swagger, any one took him for a chap who would show the white feather in a pinch, that person was certain to be surprised and quite upset.
At school a few of the boys had fancied the Texan to be a bluffer, but when they had attempted to “call him,” he had given them, one and all, a setback by “making good.” Physical injury in a fist fight had never daunted him, and now, in the face of possible death, he was just as nervy and indifferent to the result.
Once on a time Dick Merriwell had been impulsive, reckless and thoughtless, but he had learned to govern himself and to consider the consequences of any act. This had changed him greatly. Not that he had lost a whit of courage, but courage is not mere reckless thoughtlessness. The really brave man is the one who considers the consequences, realizes the full extent of the peril, and then calmly faces it.
It is possible that association with Brad, whom he often found it necessary to restrain, had tended to make Dick more conservative and careful, for he realized that two reckless persons who spur each other on are certain to commit many follies.
So Merriwell warned his chum against haste and then turned to the chief of the Bedouins to talk the matter over.
“You have called for me,” he said. “I am here. What do you want?”
Ali Beha was still surveying the calm, clear-eyed American lad with deep interest. He took his time about answering Dick’s question.
“Thou art very young,” he finally observed.
“Which is not an answer to my question,” retorted Dick.
“Thou art a mere boy.”