Mrs. Meadows caught the boy, and whirled him around and shook him. "Never, never let me hear you speak like that to any man again!"
"Why?" he demanded.
"I'll tell you why, some day, if I have to. Pray God I may never need to tell you!"
"Why?" repeated the boy, wondering at her excitement.
"Come away,—come away home!" she said, and Ross saw that her eyes were red with unshed tears. He hung behind her and looked back.
"He's lame," said he, half to himself. "I wouldn't have spoken that way if I'd known he had a game leg."
"Who's lame?" asked Mrs. Meadows.
"The Coxeyite. See. He limps bad."
"Didn't I tell you! We never know, when we call names, what sore spots we may be hitting. You may have sore spots of your own some day."
"I hope I sha'n't be lame," mused the boy. "And I hope I sha'n't be a Coxey."