"And yet you are the first man in town that has shown me any practical kindness," said Haldane, placing another stick on his saw-buck.
"Well, I kinder do it out o' spite to myself. There's somethin' inside of me sayin' all the time, 'Why are you spendin' time and money on this young scapegrace? It'll end in your havin' to give him a dinner, for you can't be so blasted mean as to let him go without it, and yet all the time you're wishin' that you needn't do it.'"
"Well, you need not," said Haldane.
"Yes, I must, too."
"All I ask of you is what you think that work is worth."
"Well, that ain't all I ask of my confounded old self. Here, you're hungry you say—s'pose you tell the truth sometimes; here you're down, and all the respectable people sittin' down hard on you; here you are in the devil's clutches, and he's got you half way toward the brimstone, and I'm grudgin' you a dinner, even when I know I've got to give it to you. That's what I call bein' mean and a fool both. A-a-h!"
Haldane stopped a moment to indulge in the first laugh he had enjoyed since his arrest.
"I hope you will pardon me, my venerable friend," said he; "but you have a rather strangely honest way of talking."
"I'm old, but I ain't venerable. My name is Jeremiah Growther," was the snarling reply.
"I'm fraid you have too much conscience, Mr. Growther. It won't let you do comfortably what others do as a matter of course."