Dallas’ success as a member of his family had so far exceeded his most sanguine expectations. The Judge had written a rather amusing letter to Mr. Folsom on the subject of his adoption of the boy, and had told him firmly that although he was keeping Dallas he was to be the last child of adoption. He wished no others. Alas! the Judge was no prophet.
Mr. Folsom, in his delight, had come to Riverport, and had had a three-days’ visit at the Judge’s and many long conversations with Dallas. The Judge could not but acknowledge that Dallas was in part a changed boy. He could not expect him to make himself over all at once, but the lad was certainly more sincere. He was still polite, exceedingly polite, but he did not bore himself and other people by doing things that were against his nature.
For instance, he had given up his ceaseless companionship of Titus. The two went their respective ways. They did not quarrel, neither did they harmonize and to the Judge’s amusement they even went to school at separate times.
If there was a question of championship Titus was at Dallas’ side, and one day the Judge did hear a species of altercation between the two boys—an altercation that had ended in a reconciliation. Titus had Dallas penned in a corner out in the garden under the Judge’s study balcony.
“Look here, if you don’t try to drop your blamed old English accent I’ll stop fighting for you,” he said. “I ’most got my nose broken to-day. Can’t you say ‘fast’? It isn’t ‘fost.’”
“Fast, fast,” said Dallas, submissively.
“Now say ‘last.’”
Dallas said “last” and “mast” and many other words, until at last he got out of patience and rebelled. “I don’t want to lose my English accent. I am proud of being English.”
“Then you do your own fighting,” said Titus, furiously.
“What makes you think I can’t fight,” said Dallas, and his pale cheeks grew pink. “I’m taller than you.”