“Just a minute, B. B.!” interposed Colonel Woodruff. “This ain’t as dangerous as you think. You don’t want us to do all this in fifteen minutes, do you, Jim?”
“Oh, as to that,” replied Jim, “I just wanted you to have in your minds what I have in my mind—and unless we can agree to work toward these things there’s no use in my staying. But time—that’s another matter. Believe with me, and I’ll work with you.”
“Get out of here!” said the colonel to Jim in an undertone, “and leave the rest to your friends.”
Jim walked out of the room and took the way toward his home. A horse tied to the hitching-pole had his blanket under foot, and Jim replaced it on his back, patting him kindly and talking horse language to him. Then he went up and down the line of teams, readjusting blankets, tying loosened knots, and assuring himself that his neighbors’ horses were securely tied and comfortable. He knew horses better than he knew people, he thought. If he could manage people as he could manage horses—but that would be wrong. The horse did his work as a servant, submissive to the wills of others; the community could never develop anything worth while in its common life, until it worked the system out for itself. Horse management was despotism; man-government must be like the government of a society of wild horses, the result of the common work of the members of the herd.
Two figures emerged from the schoolhouse door, and as he turned toward his home after his pastoral calls on the horses, they overtook him. They were the figures of Newton Bronson and the county superintendent of schools.
“We were coming after you,” said Jennie.
“Dad wants you back there again,” said Newton.
“You silly boy,” said Jennie, “you talked about the good of the schools all of the time, and never said a word about your own salary! What do you want? They want to know?”
“Oh!” exclaimed Jim in the manner of one who suddenly remembers that he has forgotten his umbrella or his pocket-knife. “I forgot all about it. I haven’t thought about that at all, Jennie!”