When he spoke he kept one hand in his coat pocket, fingering a leather thong loaded with buckshot.
“J.
D. had to do his spring plowing,” said Eugene.
“Well, if it ain’t ole Handsome,” said Julius Arthur.
He grinned squintily, revealing a mouthful of stained teeth screwed in a wire clamp.
His face was covered with small yellow pustulate sores.
How begot, how nourished?
“Shall we sing our little song for Handsome Hal?” said Ralph Rolls to his copesmate Julius.
He wore a derby hat jammed over his pert freckled face.
As he spoke he took a ragged twist of tobacco from his pocket and bit off a large chew with a rough air of relish.
“Want a chew, Jule?” he said.
Julius took the twist, wiped off his mouth with a loose male grin, and crammed a large quid into his cheek.
He brought me roots of relish sweet.
“Want one, Highpockets?” he asked Eugene, grinning.
I hate him that would upon the rack of this tough world stretch me out longer.
“Hell,” said Ralph Rolls.
“Handsome would curl up and die if he ever took a chew.”
In Spring like torpid snakes my enemies awaken.
At the corner of Church Street, across from the new imitation Tudor of the Episcopal church, they paused.
Above them, on the hill, rose the steeples of the Methodist and Presbyterian churches.
Ye antique spires, ye distant towers!
“Who’s going my way?” said Julius Arthur.
“Come on, ‘Gene.
The car’s down here.
I’ll take you home.”
“Thanks, but I can’t,” said Eugene.
“I’m going up-town.”
Their curious eyes on Dixieland when I get out.
“You going home, Villa?”
“No,” said George Graves.
“Well, keep Hal out of trouble,” said Ralph Rolls.
Julius Arthur laughed roughly and thrust his hand through Eugene’s hair.
“Old Hairbreadth Hal,” he said.
“The cutthroat from Saw–Tooth Gap!”
“Don’t let ’em climb your frame, son,” said Van Yeats, turning his quiet pleasant face on Eugene.
“If you need help, let me know.”
“So long, boys.”
“So long.”
They crossed the street, mixing in nimble horse-play, and turned down past the church along a sloping street that led to the garages.
George Graves and Eugene continued up the hill.
“Julius is a good boy,” said George Graves.
“His father makes more money than any other lawyer in town.”
“Yes,” said Eugene, still brooding on Dixieland and his clumsy deceptions.
A street-sweeper walked along slowly uphill, beside his deep wedge-bodied cart.
From time to time he stopped the big slow-footed horse and, sweeping the littered droppings of street and gutter into a pan, with a long-handled brush, dumped his collections into the cart.
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil.
Three sparrows hopped deftly about three fresh smoking globes of horse-dung, pecking out tidbits with dainty gourmandism.
Driven away by the approaching cart, they skimmed briskly over to the bank, with bright twitters of annoyance.
One too like thee, tameless, and swift, and proud.
George Graves ascended the hill with a slow ponderous rhythm, staring darkly at the ground.