Heknewtheonewhospokelast-FreemeCole，amanwhowasthefightingwonderofHoward’sboyhood，nowdegeneratedintoastoop-shouldered，faded，garrulous，andquarrelsomeoldman。Yettherewassomethingepicintheoldman’sstories，somethingenthrallinginthedramaticpowerofrecital。
Overbytheblacksmithshoptheusualgameofquaits“wasinprogress，andthedrugclerkonthecornerwaschasingacronywiththesquirtpump，withwhichhewasabouttowashthewindows。Afewteamsstoodankle-deepinthemud，tiedtothefantasticallygnawedpinepillarsofthewoodenawnings。Amanonaloadofhaywas“jawing“withtheattendantoftheplatformscales，whostoodbelow，padandpencilinhand。
“Hit’im!hit’im!Jumpoffandknock’im!“suggestedabystander，jovially。
Howardknewthevoice。
“Talk’scheap。Takesmoneyt’buywhiskey，“hesaidwhenthemanontheloadrepeatedhisthreatofgettingoffandwhippingthescalesman。