Uncle Bill was no longer silent.  The moment the big hand of his nephew closed over his leg he launched a stream of curses that chilled the blood and drove his own sons farther back into the shadow of the corner.  He demanded that they stand forth and tear Bull limb from limb.  He disinherited them for cowardice.  He threatened Bull with a vengeance compared with which the thunderbolt would be a feeble flare of light.  He swore that he was entirely capable of taking care of himself, that he would step down into his grave sooner than be nursed and petted by any living human being.

All the while, the great Bull leaned impassively over the wounded man and finally worked the boot free.  That was not all.  Uncle Bill had slipped over until he could reach a billet of wood beside his bunk.  He struck at Bull’s head with it, but the stick was brushed out of his palsied fingers with a single gesture, and, while Uncle Bill groaned with fury and impotence, Bull continued the task of preparing him for bed.  He straightened the old body of the terrible Campbell; he heated water in the tub and washed away stains and dirt; he took off the stained bandages and replaced them with clean ones.

His cousins helped in the latter part of this work.  Weakness had reduced Uncle Bill to speechlessness.  Finally the head of Bill Campbell was laid on a double fold of blanket in lieu of a pillow.  A pipe had been tamped full and lighted by Bull and—­crowning insult—­set between Bill’s teeth.  When all this was accomplished Bull retired to his corner, picked up his book, and was instantly absorbed.

In the hushed atmosphere it seemed that a terrible blow had fallen, and that another was about to fall.  Harry and Joe were as men stunned, but they looked upon their father with a gathering complacency.  They had found it demonstrated that it was possible to disobey their father without being instantly destroyed.  They were taking the lesson to heart.  And indeed old Bill Campbell himself seemed to be slowly admitting that he was beaten.

The illusion of absolute self-sufficiency, which he had built up through the years for the sake of imposing upon his sons and Bull Hunter, was now destroyed.  At a single stroke he had been exposed as an old man, already beaten in battle by a foeman and now requiring as much care as a sick woman.  The shame of it burned in him; but the comfort of the smoothed bunk and the filled pipe between his teeth was a blessing.  He found to his own surprise that he was not hating Bull with a tithe of his usual vigor.  He began to realize that he had come to the end of his period of command.  When he left that sickbed he could only advise.