"And the crack of the bone!" continued the Doge.
"Would you have a man turn cherub when he has escaped having his jugular slashed by a margin of two or three inches? Would you have him say, 'Please, naughty boy, give me your knife? You mustn't play with such things!'"
"No! That's hyperbole!" the Doge returned with a lame attempt at a laugh.
"Mebbe it is, whatever hyperbole is," said Jim; "but if so, hyperbole is a darned poor means of self-defence. Yes, the trouble is you are against Jack Wingfield!"
"Yes, I am!" said the Doge suddenly, as if inward anger had got the better of him.
"And the rest of us are for him!" Jim declared sturdily.
"Naturally! naturally!" said the Doge, passing his hand over his brow.
"Yes, youth and color and bravery!" He shook his head moodily, as if
Jim's statement brought up some vital, unpleasant, but inevitable fact
to his mind.
"It's beyond me how anybody can help liking him!" concluded Galway stubbornly.
"I like him—yes, I do like him! I cannot help it!" the Doge admitted rather grudgingly as he turned away.
"So we weren't so far apart, after all!" Galway hastened to call after the Doge in apology for his testiness. "We like him for what he has been to us and will always be to us. That's the only criterion of character in Little Rivers according to your own code, isn't it, Jasper Ewold?"