"The boys 'ud forget me," said John anxiously, "and I'd have to begin all over agen."
"What with?—Leave him alone, Brown."
"Thrashing 'em. They know me everywhere about Warrena. I can make 'em all sit up. I don't want to change my name."
A sparkle came into the old man's eyes.
"Well said, my lad," he snapped. "I'd not have given a rap for you if you'd have cast your name away as easily as a pinching pair o' boots. Stick to your own name, John, and you'll look all the better after mine."
He waited a bit, eyeing the boy up and down keenly. The thin brown face, with its square determined mouth, quiet grey eyes and high forehead; the sturdy figure, countrified clothes, copper-toed boots, all passed under his scrutiny.
"So you're of the fighting kind?" he asked at last.
"Yes," said John proudly.
"Ah! You never were, you remember, Brown. Things might have been different if you had been."