“Medals of honor!” exclaimed Mr. McCarthy. “How did you get 'em?”
“Won 'em in the Mexican War.”
“Why don't you wear 'em on the outside of your jacket?” Air. McCarthy inquired.
“I rise to a point of order,” said the Pearl, as he got to his feet. “If I had a thousand dollars, would I wear it on the outside o' my pocket? Or if I was Mr. McCarthy, would I have to tell people that I was a gentleman?” The Pearl gathered power like a locomotive when he got to going. His words conveyed a message of special value to Mr. McCarthy.
“Never want to show your cards more than is necessary before you play 'em,” the Pearl continued. “I could have used those medals to get a job many a time when I wouldn't, any more than you'd let a girl marry you out o' pity. There have been years when I wa'n't as good as the medals—there's the truth of it. Every night when I go to bed I hang that vest on a chair, wrong side out, an' take a look at 'em, an' try to make myself as good as they are.”
“Tell me how you won them?” Mr. McCarthy urged.
“That isn't in the order o' exercises,” the Pearl went on. “The chair begs to advise the gentleman from Hermon Center that if he, the said gentleman, ever succeeds in doing a big thing, the sooner he forgets it the longer it will be remembered. If a man makes his history it's all that can be expected o' him. Somebody else ought to do the tellin', if it has to be told.”
“That's sound,” said Mr. McCarthy, “and I'm going to put it down in my note-book.”
“I'm goin' to forget it,” said the Pearl, as he began to prepare for bed.
We were up at sunrise in the morning. Late that day we landed, and Pearl took the canoe on his back and we put across country. A walk of six miles brought us to our own river, and we saved thereby a day of water travel. The sun was low when we wet our canoe again.