In earlier conversations Bill, subtly
questioned, had stoutly maintained that he was not afraid of Indians,
dogs, pirates, mice, cows, June-bugs, or noises in the dark. He had
even gone so far as to state that if an Indian chief found his way into
the nursery he, Bill, would chop his head off. The most exacting father
could not have asked more. And yet Kirk was not satisfied: he remained
uneasy.
It so happened that this afternoon Bill, who had had hitherto to
maintain his reputation for intrepidity entirely by verbal statements,
was afforded an opportunity of providing a practical demonstration that
his heart was in the right place. The game he was playing with the
bricks was one that involved a certain amount of running about with a
puffing accompaniment of a vaguely equine nature. And while performing
this part of the programme he chanced to trip. He hesitated for a
moment, as if uncertain whether to fall or remain standing; then did
the former with a most emphatic bump.
He scrambled up, stood looking at Kirk with a twitching lip, then gave
a great gulp, and resumed his trotting. The whole exhibition of
indomitable heroism was over in half a minute, and he did not even
bother to wait for applause.
The effect of the incident on Kirk was magical. He was in the position
of an earnest worshipper who, tortured with doubts, has prayed for a
sign.
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