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。

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