“Well, that’s just it,” sez I. “A human bein’ is like a keg o’ black stuff. For years it may sit around perfectly harmless; and only when the right spark pops into it can we tell whether it’s black sand or blastin’ powder. Even Horace, himself, thought he was black sand; but he turned out to be a mighty high grade o’ powder.”
We walked on a while without talkin’; but the Friar was wrastlin’ with his own thoughts, an’ finally he stopped an’ asked me as solemn as though I was the boss o’ that whole country: “If you had started a lot o’ work, and part of it promised to yield a rich harvest with the right care, and part of it looked as though it might sink back to worse than it had been in the beginnin’—is there anything in the world which could make you give it up?”
The Friar knew my life as well as I did; so I didn’t have to do any pertendin’ with him. “Yes,” I sez, “the right woman would.”
The Friar didn’t do any pertendin’ with me either. He stood, shakin’ his head slowly from side to side. “I wish I knew, I wish I knew,” he said.
We walked on again, an’ when we came in sight o’ the cabin, I sez to him, in order to give him a chance to free his mind if he saw fit: “Horace told me what he knew about it.”
“Yes, I know,” sez the Friar; “but no one knew very much. She was a splendid brave girl, Happy. I had known her when she was a little girl and I a farmer boy. I was much older than she was, but I was allus interested in her. There wasn’t one thing they could say against her—and yet they drove her out o’ my life. I thought she was dead, I heard that she was dead; so I buried her in my heart, and came out here where life was strong and young, because I could not work back there. I tried to work in the slums of the cities; but I could not conquer my own bitterness, with the rich wastin’ and the poor starvin’ all about me. I have found joy in my life out here; but she has come to life again with that picture, and once more I am at war with myself.”
“Well, I’ll bet my eyes, Friar,” sez I, “that you find the right answer; but I haven’t got nerve enough to advise ya—though I will say that if it was me, I’d pike out an’ look for the girl.”
“I wish I knew, I wish I knew,” was all the Friar said.
Promotheus didn’t have any set-backs after this. We talked over whether it would be better to have him go up to Ty’s an’ tell the boys some big tale about Dinky Bradford, or to just pull out an’ leave ’em guessin’; and we finally came to the conclusion ’at the last would be the best.
He was still purty weak by the first o’ February; but he was beginnin’ to fret at bein’ housed up any longer, so we began to get ready to hit the back-trail. By takin’ wide circles we could get through all right, at this season; but with Promotheus still purty wobbly, it wasn’t likely to be a pleasant trip, an’ we didn’t hurry none with our preparations. Horace insisted on payin’ Olaf two hundred dollars for his share o’ the bother, an’ I’m purty certain he slipped Kit another hundred. He wasn’t no wise scrimpy with money.