And I sez to him once, “You can’t do very much towards belittlin’ a noble army of workers as that is—­millions strong.”

“Millions weak, you mean,” sez he.  “I dare presoom to say there hain’t a woman amongst ’em but what is afraid of a mouse, and would run from a striped snake.”

Sez I, “They don’t run from the serpent Evil, that is wreathin’ round their homes and loved ones, and a-tryin’ to destroy ’em—­they run towards that serpent, and hain’t afraid to grapple with it, and overthrow it—­by the help of the Mighty,” sez I.

Sez he, “There is too much made of their work.”  Sez he, “There hain’t near so much done as folks think; the most of it is talk, and a-praisin’ each other up.”

“Wall,” sez I, “men won’t never be killed for that in their political rivalin’s, they won’t be condemned for praisin’ each other up.”

“No,” sez he, “men know too much.”

And then I spoke of that silver woman—­how beautiful and noble an appearance she made, in the spear she ort to be in, a-representin’ Justice.

And Nony said, “She wuz too soft.”  Sez he, “It is with her as it is with all other wimmen—­men have to stand in front of her with guns to keep her together, to keep her solid.”

That kinder gaulded me, for there wuz some truth in it, for I had seen the men and the rifles.

But I sprunted up, and sez I—­

“They are a-guardin’ her to keep men from stealin’ her, that is what they are for.  And,” sez I, “it would be a good thing for lots of wimmen, who have got lots of silver, if it hain’t in their bodies, if they had a guard a-walkin’ round ’em with rifles to keep off maurauders.”

Why, there wuzn’t nothin’ brung up that he believed in, or that he didn’t act morbid over.

Why, I believe his Ma—­good, decent-lookin’ widder with false hair and a swelled neck, but well-to-do—­wuz ashamed of him.

Right acrost from me to the table sot a fur different creeter.  It wuz a man in the prime of life, and wisdom, and culture, who did believe in things.  You could tell that by the first look in his face—­handsome—­sincere—­ardent.  With light brown hair, tossed kinder careless back from a broad white forward—­deep blue, impetuous-lookin’ eyes, but restrained by sense from goin’ too fur.  A silky mustache the same color of his hair, and both with a considerable number of white threads a-shinin’ in ’em, jest enough so’s you could tell that old Time hadn’t forgot him as he went up and down the earth with his hour-glass under his arm, and his scythe over his shoulder.

He had a tall, noble figger, always dressed jest right, so’s you would never think of his clothes, but always remember him simply as bein’ a gentleman, helpful, courteous, full of good-nature and good-natured wit and fun.  But yet with a sort of a sad look underlyin’ the fun, some as deep waters look under the frothy sparkle on top, as if they had secrets they might tell if they wuz a mind to—­secrets of dark places down, fur down, where the sun doesn’t shine; secrets of joy and happiness, and hope that had gone down, and wuz carried under the depths—­under the depths that we hadn’t no lines to fathom.