“Do you wonder?” he thundered at them in the pause. Then he went on with the merry tune. And now, indeed, the feet of the children began to keep time.
“Say, Coulter,” he cried as if he were calling out the numbers of a dance, “will you cut it out?”
Coulter, never a hangdog, sat with his arms still folded. His blue eyes met the old fiddler’s steadily.
“Coulter, you’ve got brains. You’re not a dolt. You see the point of what I told you. Cut it out, Coulter, will you, for the sake of these here young ladies, and for my sake, and for the sake of learning, Coulter!”
How happy the music was—how far away from hate and meanness and grudging! Coulter looked squarely across at poor little Simms, who seemed very small and thin. His spare arms showed through his torn shirt; his wisp of a face was marred and blackened by Coulter’s fist. Suddenly, Bud Coulter saw the point. Yes, “l’arnin’” was a thing that had neither to do with friend or foe.
“Cut it out, Coulter?” questioned Haystack, vociferously.
“Yessir,” called back Coulter. “If he wants to come to school, I’ll keep my hands off him.”
“Honor bright?”
“Yessir. When I give my word, I keep it.”
“Glory be!” shouted Haystack. And “Glory be!” shouted “Betsy,” the violin.