But they were shrilling new directions at him; perhaps they had been calling to him several times.
"You blamed idiot, are you goin' to stand there all day? We didn't give you that stump to rest on. Pull it up!"
He started with a sense of guilt and tugged up. His fingers slipped off their separate grips, and the stump, though it groaned against the taproot under the strain, did not come out.
"It don't seem to budge, somehow," said Bull in his big, soft, plaintive voice. Then he waited for the laughter. There was always laughter, no matter what he did or said, but he never grew calloused against it. It was the one pain which ever pierced the mist of his brain and cut him to the quick. And he was right. There was laughter again. He stood suffering mutely under it.
The girl's face became grave. She murmured to Harry, "Ever try praisin' to big stupid?"
"Him? Are you joshin' me, Jessie? What's he ever done to be praised about?"
"You watch!" said the girl. Growing excited with her idea, she called,
"Say, Bull!"
He lifted his head, but not his eyes. Those eyes studied the impatient feet of the girl's mustang; he waited for another stroke of wit that would bring forth a fresh shower of laughter at his expense.
"Bull, you're mighty big and strong. About the biggest and strongest man I ever seen!"
Was this a new and subtle form of mockery? He waited dully.