On the church steps sat Luther Dean and the New Boy. The New Boy had lived in Longfields only a few weeks. He differed, in many ways, from the other boys of the village. He was blasé, and older in his feelings; he came from a larger town and had seen more of the world. His tendency, now,—natural, perhaps, but unrepressed—was to despise more simple people. He gave the impression among still younger boys of having crowded into his ten years of life a red career of war and piracy, of wild adventure, of reckless deeds and thrilling escapes. These experiences were rather suggested than described, always in a casual off-hand way, calmly and without excitement, in a voice and manner tempered by the wisdom of the ages. And his eyes, light blue and frigidly serene, moved slowly from one listener to another in a weary but patient condescension. His usual haunts, it appeared, were the upper ether, and the deep sea, the cañon and the prairie, the impenetrable forest, the decks of battleships and fields of carnage.
As the bridal couple approached the steps, Cyrus called to Luther Dean and beckoned to him. Luther came forward. So also did the New Boy—the Budding Outlaw—although he was not invited; and his presence embarrassed Cyrus, for this was a private business, in a sense, and not for the general public. Besides, Cyrus did not like the New Boy. However, he braced up and put on a careless front.
"We want you to marry us, Luther, now, here in the church."
Luther frowned, then smiled. "Me? Marry?"
"Yes, marry us—Ruth and me."
"Golly! I—I—never married anybody."
"That don't matter. Anybody can do it."
"But I'm too young. It takes a man."
"No, it doesn't. Ruth can tell you what to say. It's all easy. Come along."
They entered the church; but Zac, like many of his kind, was unpleasantly affected by music, so he remained outside.