Henderson sketched for him briefly the histories of schools that had come to other sections of the hills; schools taught by inspired teachers, with their model farms, their saw-mills and even their hospitals: schools to which not only children but pupils whose hair had turned white came and eagerly learned their alphabets, and as much more as they sought.
The boy raised a hand. "Fer God's sake don't narrate them things," he implored. "They sots me on fire. My grandsires hev been satisfied hyar fer centuries an' all my folks sees in me, fer dreamin' erbout things like thet, is lackin' of loyalty."
Henderson found his interest so powerfully engaged that he talked on with an excess of enthusiasm.
"But back of those grandsires were other grandsires, Turner. They were the strongest, the best and the most American of all America; those earlier ancestors of yours and mine. They dared to face the wilderness, and those that got across the mountains won the West."
"Ours didn't git acrost though," countered the boy dryly. "Ours was them thet started out ter do big things an' failed."
Henderson smiled. "A mule that went lame, a failure to strike one of the few possible passes, made all the difference between success and failure in that pilgrimage, but the blood of those empire-builders is our blood and what they are now, we shall be when we catch up. We've been marking time while they were marching, that's all."
"Ye've done been off ter college yoreself, hain't ye, Mr. Henderson?"
"Yes. Harvard."
"Harvard? Seems ter me I've heered tell of hit. Air hit as good as Berea?"
The visitor repressed his smile, but before he could answer Bear Cat pressed on: