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Updated: May 9, 2025
"It is the only position and the only course left to a thinking and a self-respecting white man," the Major rejoined. "Yes, I will agree to that, too." "Ah, and that's the trouble, Mr. Brennon. You agree while you oppose." "My dear Major, I am not here to oppose, nor to destroy, but to save fragments when the hour of destruction shall have come."
He lived his days and his nights in dreams of delivering or evading blows. Often while dressing of a morning he would stop to punish an invisible opponent, doing an elaborate dance the while. It was better than linotypes or motor busses. In the early days of this new study he had been fearful of hurting Spike Brennon.
It was before Fismes, being out where he had no call to be, and after winning a finish fight with a strangely staring spectacled foe, that he stumbled across the inert form of Private Brennon, who must also have gone where he had no call to go. He leaned over him. Spike's mask was broken, but half adjusted. He shouldered the burden, grunting as he did so, angered by the weight of it.
Beside him sat the red-eyed and disreputable Pegleg McCarron, who whacked the floor with the end of his crutch from time to time in testimony of his low pleasure. The round closed with one of Wilbur Cowan's right crosses started from not too far back landing upon the jaw of Spike Brennon with what seemed to be a shattering impact.
She picked up and scanned with shrewd eyes the photograph of Spike that had been left: "To my friend Kid Cowan from his friend Eddie Spike Brennon, 133 lbs. ringside." She studied without wincing the crouched figure of hostile eye, even though the costume was not such as she would have selected for a young man. "After all, he's only a boy," she murmured. She studied again the intent face.
Brennon," the Major replied, "between you and me the question of creed should not arise. You are a white man and a gentleman. My hand, sir." Brantly long ago was a completed town. For the most part it was built of wood, and its appearance of decay was so general and so even as to invite the suspicion that nearly all its building had been erected on the same day.
He would leave an ailing car to help out Sam Pickering, or he would leave for a round of golf with Sharon Whipple, Sharon complaining that other people were nothing but doggoned golf lawyers; and he would insist upon time off at three o'clock each afternoon to give Spike Brennon his work-out. Spike had laboured to develop other talent in Newbern, but with ill success.
Now he could only dream of past conquests, and merely complained when his master roused him. "I hope you'll be here when I get back and I hope I'll be here, too," said his master, and went on, sauntering up to the station a bit later as nonchalantly as ever Dave Cowan himself had gone there to begin a long journey on the six-fifty-eight. Spike Brennon lounged against a baggage truck.
Winona, conceiving that this talk was meant to describe an accident of the most innocent character, demanded further details; wishing to be told what a straight left was; why a person named Spike Brennon kept such things about; and how Wilbur had been so careless as to step into one.
It was quieter after the barrage had passed: only the tack-tack of machine guns and the clash of meeting bayonets. "Going to have some rough stuff," said Private Brennon. For a long time then Private Cowan was so engrossed with the routine of his present loose trade that the name of Whipple seemed to have no room in his mind. For four hours he had held a cold rifle and thought.
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