By this time the cadets were well started down the street. Beyond talk the crowd had done nothing, except to fire one pebble, which had hit Indian. Poor Indian hadn’t made a sound; he was afraid of making Texas madder still. Indian regarded Texas about as one would a ton of dynamite.
Mark had managed his friend so diplomatically, however, that he thought the danger was all over. It never once entered Mark’s head that anybody else in the seven would lose his temper.
That proved to be the case, however. Chauncey, “the dude,” and Parson Stanard, both of whom considered it undignified to hurry, were lagging somewhat in the rear. The contrast of that white flannel and black broadcloth was too much for the hoodlums.
“Look at de blackbird!”
“’Ray for the preacher!”
“Bet he’s from Boston. Hey, dere, beans, where’s yer specs?”
Now it was right there that the trouble began. As we all know, Parson Stanard was from Boston. Moreover, as a true Bostonian he was proud of his native city, the center of American culture and refinement, cradle of liberty, etc., etc., etc.
Parson Stanard was a very meek and scholarly gentleman. But there are some things that even a scholar will resent. The proverbial worm will turn, as any one who has ever baited a fish-hook can testify. As Webster has put it: “There is a limit to human endurance at which patience ceases to be a virtue.” To that limit Parson Stanard had come.
Willingly he would have let them poke fun at him. Perhaps even if they had seen fit to ridicule his wondrous Cyathophylloid coral he might have stood it in silence. They might have insulted the immortal Dana’s geology unharmed. But Boston and Bostonians? Never! Quick as a flash the Parson had whirled about.
“By the gods!” he cried. “This is indeed intolerable, and by no means to be suffered unrebuked.”