“‘Dare to be a Daniel;
Dare to make a stand’?”
The sheriff’s reply was enigmatical. It was: “Well, to think of you having such a mother as that!”
“I don’t deserve her, that’s a fact,” said Paisley, with his flippant air. “And yet, would you believe it, I used to be the model boy of the Sunday-school. Won all the prizes. Ma’s got them in a drawer.”
“Dare say. They thought you were a awful good boy, because you always kept your face clean and brushed your hair without being told to, and learned your lessons quick, and always said ‘Yes, ’m,’ and ‘No, ’m,’ and when you got into a scrape lied out of it, and picked up bad habits as easy and quiet as a long-haired dog catches fleas. Oh, I know your sort of model boy! We had ’em at the Orphans’ Home; I’ve taken their lickings, too.”
Paisley’s thin face was scarlet before the speech was finished. “Some of that is true,” said he; “but at least I never hit a fellow when he was down.”
The sheriff narrowed his eyes in a way that he had when thinking; he put both hands in his pockets and contemplated Paisley’s irritation. “Well, young feller, you have some reason to talk that way to me,” said he. “The fact is, I was mad at you, thinking about your mother. I—I respect that lady very highly.”
Paisley forced a feeble smile over his “So do I.”
But after this episode the sheriff’s manner visibly softened to the young man. He told Raker that there were good spots in Paisley.
“Yes, he’s mighty slick,” said Raker.