for armour, because my native hide was tender and my skin too sensitive to meet the Hortons of the earth—and somewhere, down below our manner, stands the naked man.” Again he was silent and in a moment he continued quietly:
“My father was a fine man and we never got to know each other very well. The night before I went away to college he’took me to one side’and talked to me—he told me how they had their hearts set on me, and he asked me to become a good and useful man—a good American.”
“And what did you say, Frank?”
“Nothing. There was nothing I could say…. Our house stands on a little butte above the river,” he went on quietly in a moment, “and when he had finished talking I went out and stood there looking at the river.”
“What river, Frank?”
“There is only one,” he answered. “The great slow river—the dark and secret river of the night—the everlasting flood—the unceasing Mississippi…. It is a river that I know so well, with all my life that I shall never tell about. Perhaps you will some day—perhaps you have the power in you—And if you do—” he paused.
“And if I do?”
“Speak one word for a boy who could not speak against the Hortons of this land, but who once stood above a river—and who knew America as every other boy has known it.” He turned, smiling: “If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, absent thee from felicity awhile, and in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, to tell my story.”
In a moment he got up, and laughing his infectious laugh, said:
“Come on, let’s go.”
And together they walked away.
