It
was an honor to kill a man, and if you accomplished it by
kicking him to death when he was unconscious it detracted
nothing from the glory of your exploit--it was WHAT you did,
not HOW you did it, that counted.
"I could have been decent, though, if I'd wanted to. Other
fellows who were born and raised near me were decent
enough. They got good jobs and stuck to them, and lived
straight; but they made me sick--I looked down on them,
and spent my time hanging around saloon corners rushing
the can and insulting women--I didn't want to be decent--
not until I met you, and learned to--to," he hesitated,
stammering, and the red blood crept up his neck and across
his face, "and learned to want your respect."
It wasn't what he had intended saying and the girl knew it.
There sprang into her mind a sudden wish to hear Billy Byrne
say the words that he had dared not say; but she promptly
checked the desire, and a moment later a qualm of self-disgust
came over her because of the weakness that had
prompted her to entertain such a wish in connection with a
person of this man's station in life.
Days ran into weeks, and still the two remained upon their
little island refuge. Byrne found first one excuse and then
another to delay the march to the sea.
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