“Thought ye was goin' to eat 'im up, Hump?” said a friend.
“Ye ain't hed yer meal yet, Hump,” reminded another.
Mr. Hump Gibson arose slowly out of the dust, yet he did not stand straight.
“Come on, come on!” cried the young lawyer-fellow, and he thrust the point of the rail within a foot of Mr. Gibson's stomach.
“Come on, Hump!” howled the crowd, but Mr. Gibson stood irresolute. He lacked the supreme test of courage which was demanded on this occasion. Then he turned and walked away very slowly, as though his pace might mitigate in some degree the shame of his retreat. The young man flung away the fence-rail, and, thrusting aside the overzealous among his admirers, he strode past me into the tavern, his anger still hot.
“Hooray fer Jackson!” they shouted. “Hooray fer Andy Jackson!”
Andy Jackson! Then I knew. Then I remembered a slim, wild, sandy-haired boy digging his toes in the red mud long ago at the Waxhaws Settlement. And I recalled with a smile my own fierce struggle at the schoolhouse with the same boy, and how his slobbering had been my salvation. I turned and went in after him with the landlord, who was rubbing his hands with glee.
“I reckon Hump won't come crowin' round heah any more co't days, Mr. Jackson,” said our host.
But Mr. Jackson swept the room with his eyes and then glared at the landlord so that he gave back.
“Where's my man?” he demanded.