This was a revelation. A million anti-Indian statements, however
resolute, were nothing to this.
This was the real thing. Before his eyes this super-child of his had
fallen in a manner which might quite reasonably have led to tears;
which would, Kirk felt sure, have produced bellows of anguish from
every other child in America. And what had happened? Not a moan. No,
sir, not one solitary cry. Just a gulp which you had to strain your
ears to hear, and which, at that, might have been a mere taking-in of
breath such as every athlete must do, and all was over.
This child of his was the real thing. It had been proved beyond
possibility of criticism.
There are moments when a man on parole forgets his promise. All thought
of rules and prohibitions went from Kirk. He rose from his seat,
grabbed his son with both hands, and hugged him. We cannot even begin
to estimate the number of bacilli which must have rushed, whooping with
joy, on to the unfortunate child. Under a microscope it would probably
have looked like an Old Home Week. And Kirk did not care. He simply
kept on hugging. That was the sort of man he was--thoroughly heartless.
"Bill, you're great!" he cried.
Bill had been an amazed party to the incident. Nothing of this kind had
happened to him for so long that he had forgotten there were children
to whom this sort of thing did happen.
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