“Well, that’s the heroic spirit, I suppose,” Brent mused, trying to favor Billy and to see his side of the thing.
“Oh, I guess nobody understands,” Billy said, disheartened with himself.
“You needn’t be afraid to open up with me,” said Brent in his whimsical way. “I’m a good target; all you have to do is just shoot. You see I haven’t got any talents and things to frighten you away with.... What seems to be the trouble, Billy?” he shot out suddenly.
That quick, friendly candor, seeming to invite candor in return, caught Billy Simpson the same as it had caught Pee-wee. You could not get away from old Doctor Gaylong....
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Billy, despairingly. “I can’t understand myself, I suppose. Maybe you’ll understand. All alone by myself I can do things—”
“Paddle,” Brent reminded him cheerily.
“Yes, and in the presence of a great big crowd I could do something—I wouldn’t care if a million people were watching me. If I saw big crowds standing around and they were cheering and all that, I’d forget myself and wouldn’t be—”
“Self-conscious? Sure, go on,” said Brent.
“I wouldn’t be afraid then. I suppose you think I’m crazy, huh? Afraid of a dozen or so fellows and not afraid of a thousand! I can’t do anything unless I forget myself. Maybe you’ll say I’m just spectacular. I guess I’m morbid. I’m all the time dreaming about being a hero—”
“And meanwhile you don’t make friends,” Brent said kindly.