"But he came back, Jerry!" said Diana in her gentlest voice.
"Ha!" exclaimed the Tinker, looking from her to me and back again, keenly. "Then he is hee-roic!"
"No!" said I, "No, I'm not—and never can be!"
"Oh," said the Tinker. "And why?"
"Because I'm not brave enough, strong enough, big enough—"
"Lord, young friend, don't be so down-hearted and confounded humble; it aren't nat'ral in one so young! What do you think, Ann?"
"That he's hungry," she answered.
"Aye, to be sure!" chuckled the Tinker. "And I reckon no hero can feel properly hee-roic when his innards be cold and empty—"
"But I'm not hungry," I sighed, "at least—not very. But the longer I live the more I know myself for a hopeless incompetent—lately, at least—a poor, helpless do-nothing—"
"Lord love ye, lad," quoth the Tinker, laying his hand upon my bowed shoulder, "if you've learned so much, take comfort, for to know ourselves and our failings is surely the beginning o' wisdom. But if you can't be a conquering hero all at once, don't grieve—you ain't cut out for a fighter—"