In spite of his age and experience, he did not understand that the world values men according to the 90 resistance they interpose against it; according to the stamping down of feet and the presenting of shoulders and the squaring arms to take its blows. Cowards make a front before it and get on with amazing success; droves of poltroons bluster and storm, with empty shells of hearts inside their ribs, and kick up a fine dust in the arena, under the cloud of which they snatch down many of the laurels which have been hung up for worthier men. Success lies principally in understanding that the whole game is a bluff on the world’s part, and that the biggest bluffer in the ring takes down the purse.
But the timid hearts of the earth never learn this; the sentimentalists and the poets do not understand it. You can’t go along sweeping a clear path for your feet with a bunch of flowers. What you need is a good, sound club. When a hairy shin impedes, whack it, or make a feint and a bluff. You’ll be surprised how easily the terrifying hulks of adversity are charmed out of the highway ahead of you by a little impertinence, a little ginger, and a little gall.
Many a man remains a coward all his life because somebody cowed him when he was a boy. Dr. Slavens had put his hands down, and had stood with his shoulders hunched, taking the world’s thumps without striking back, for so many years in his melancholy life that his natural resistance had shrunk. On that day he was not as nature had intended him, but as circumstances had made him.
It had become the friendly fashion in camp for the 91 doctor and Agnes to take a walk after supper. June’s mother had frowned on the boldness of it, whispering to June’s aunt. But the miller’s wife, more liberal and romantic, wouldn’t hear of whisperings. She said their conduct was as irreproachable in that country as eating peas with a spoon.
“I wish I was in her place!” she sighed.
“Dorothy Ann!” gasped Mrs. Reed. “Remember your husband, Dorothy Ann!”
“I do,” sighed the miller’s wife.
“Well, if you were in her place you’d ask somebody to accompany you on your moonlight strolls, I hope. I hope that’s what you’d do, Dorothy Ann.”
“No,” answered the miller’s wife thoughtfully. “I’d propose. She’ll lose him if she doesn’t.”
On the evening of that day of blasted hopes the two of them walked away in the gloaming toward the river, with few words between them until they left the lights of Comanche behind.