"He don't look like a book-learned gent," said Hugh Manners with more respect in his voice.
"He don't look like a lot of things that he is," said Pete. "I don't know what he is myself—except that he's the straightest, gentlest, kindest, simplest fellow that ever walked."
Bull Hunter turned to escape from hearing this eulogy, but he dared not move for fear his retreat might be heard—and that would be immensely embarrassing.
"Just what he is I don't know," said Pete again. "He doesn't know himself. He's had what you might call an extra-long childhood—that's why he's got that misty look in his eyes."
"That fool look," scoffed Hugh Manners.
"You think so? I tell you, Manners, he's just waking up, and when he's clear waked up he'll be a world-beater! You saw that doorknob?"
"Smashed? Yep. What of it?"
"He done it with a gun, standing clean across the room, with a flash draw, shooting from the hip—and he made a clean center hit of it."
Pete brought out these facts jerkily, one by one, piling one extraordinary thing upon the other; and when he had finished, Hugh Manners gasped.
"I'm mighty glad," he said, "that you told me that, I—I might of made some mistake."