# "Chet" (Yates)/Chapter 3

ON the way home we caught up with Bob Stevens and his sister. Flo Stevens is a mighty pretty girl and has stunning big gray eyes. She's about eighteen. I introduced Uncle Rob and we had a lot of fun; for Bob was in one of his best moods, and he's dandy company when he wants to be.
Isn't it odd how people make their names like themselves? Now there's Bob Stevens and Uncle Rob, both with the same name to start with;—but no one in the world would ever think of calling Uncle Rob, "Bob." I don't know exactly why, because he isn't starchy or prim, not the least bit; and he made me begin calling him "Uncle Rob," right at first; but there's nothing rowdy nor harum-scarum about him. He knows where he's "at," every second of the time; and while he's full of fun and can say the most ridiculous things I ever heard, yet there's a certain fine dignity about him, that would keep you from calling him "Bob," even if he were your chum.
​With Bob Stevens it's different. He's a sort of happy-go-lucky, what's-the-difference-it's-all-in-a-lifetime kind of a fellow;—doing things he shouldn't, just because he wants to,—and then kicking himself afterward;—and then doing the same thing over again;—so really "Bob" just fits him. That is, it fits him on the outside; but there are things underneath, that you catch a glimpse of only once in a great while when you know him real well;—things that make you feel like calling him "Robert" and being proud to know him. Folks think him rowdy and conceited,—until they catch a glimpse of his real self.
Bob and Flo came on down to our house and we all sat on the veranda fora while. Uncle Rob and Flo sat up on the swinging seat, and Bess and Bob and I sat down on the steps and began talking about school. Bob said he hated like the dickens to start in; that he was sure he would scrap with the teacher because he'd been sent up there for a reprimand, from the lower rooms, two or three times;—and you know you never like a person who has only seen you when you are in disgrace. It really doesn't give a fellow a fair show when he begins to go to school to that ​teacher; for they both start in looking for trouble. Bob said he didn't care, though,—that he could take care of himself, and he'd bet the teacher would have more trouble than he would.
"That makes it look as if things would be pretty lively in our room," said Bess.
"They sure will," said Bob. "I've always been to a woman-teacher before, and that sort of handicaps one; but I'll show Mr. Maxon a few things."
Bess leaned back against the pillar and looked at him with a little smile. "What's the use?" she said.
"Well, I'm going to show him that he can't run over me."
"How do you know he wants to?"
Bob hesitated. "Well, he can't," he said at last.
Bess bent forward, with er chin on her hand —and her face quite close to his, in the gloom, and a smile on her mouth. "Bob," she said, "you make yourself a lot of trouble, don't you?"
Bob threw back his head. "No," he said. "I have more fun than any other fellow in town. I do exactly as I please."
​"No, you don't," said Bess. "The most of the time you do things that you don't want to.
"Well, I just do not!" said Bob.
Bess nodded. "Yes, you do. I have eyes, Bob."
Bob straightened back his shoulders and looked at her rather insolently. "Oh, you have, have you? Well, what is the first thing that your eyes would notice about me?"
Bess went on smiling. "Well," she said, "'most any one would say that it was conceit and egotism—" Bob looked pleased, but gave a little ironical sniff; "but," went on Bess, "I should say that you hate yourself more than any other person I ever saw."
Bob's face changed and the arrogance went out of his shoulders. He humped over and sat with his chin on his hands, not saying a word. We all three sat silent for quite a long time. By and by Bob spoke, his voice very low. "You're right, Bess," he said; "but no one ever saw it before. I don't do what I want to—I do what I make myself do; because I don't know how to be myself. I try to make a show of being independent, ​that's all. You see, once when I was a kid—" he stopped.
"Go on," said Bess.
"Oh, I don't want to bore you with the 'story of my life,'" he said.
"Go on," said Bess.
"Well, I was only eight years old, and one evening I was out in front of the house, fooling around with a rope. It was an old clothes-line—I don't know where I got it; but I was just fooling with it, and I thought it would be fun to tie the dog up to the hitching-post and play he was a horse. The post was holding still and the dog wasn't, and so I tied one end of the rope to the post and took the other end and started after the dog. I chased him across the street and had just got him by the collar, when along came a man on a bicycle, and it was dusk, and he didn't see the rope, and pitched over it. It broke his machine all to pieces and smashed him up some, and I was scared to death and hid behind a tree. He was the maddest man you ever saw,—and then the dog began to bark and that gave me away, and he came over and grabbed me and asked me where I lived. I told him; but I was too scared to say anything ​else, and he walked me over to the house and told Father what I'd done, and said I'd put the rope across the street on purpose to trip people up, and had jerked it when he came along. I suppose he thought I did.
"Father wouldn't let me say a word to explain; but went out and looked at the rope, and then took me up stairs and thrashed me;—the first time I'd ever had a real thrashing in my life. He used a piece of the rope to do it. Then he told me that I wasn't to go out of the house for one month,—that it wasn't safe for a person like me to be at large. He never let me say one word about how it happened. When I would try to tell him, he'd press his lips together and say:—'I don't wish to hear anything about it—I saw the rope.' Mother and Flo were away that Summer, so I was all alone.
"For one month I never set my foot outside of the house, not even onto the veranda; and during the whole time, I was just sitting and staring at the injustice of it all. A kid eight years old can do an awful lot of thinking in a case like that, and it lasts him for a mighty long time. When any of the boys asked Father where I was, ​he said I was staying in the house because I wasn't to be trusted outside. He thought it would be a lesson to them, too.
"And, so when at last I did come out, I found that I had the reputation of being a regular tough. The boys had told their folks, and their folks had forbidden them to play with me. At first I didn't know what to do. It hurt and I was ashamed and miserable and just about wanted to die; and then, by and by I noticed that the other kids looked at me with a sort of awe and admiration, and I found that everything I did was made ten times worse, because I was supposed to be so bad; and so I thought it over and decided that if I was going to have the name of being tough, I might as well have the fun of it. I was just a little kid, you know, less than nine years old.
"And that way, I got to doing things just out of daring,—to make the boys open their eyes,—not because I wanted to,—and I've done that sort of thing ever since. You see, that one little incident, that was only thoughtlessness, that I never meant at all, has grown to where it has put every fellow's hand against me,—and put me where I deserve to have them against me."
​Bess had been sitting very quiet. She put out her hand then. "Here's one that isn't against you; but for you," she said.
He took it, but didn't speak; and then I shoved out mine without saying a word, and he gripped it;—then he got up. "Come on, Flo," he said, "It's time to go home if you're going to friz your hair for the picnic to-morrow."
Flo jumped out of the swinging seat. "That's so," she said, running her fingers through her fluffy hair. "Picnic starts for Blennerhasset Island at nine in the morning, so there's work for me and the curl-papers."
"You going, Bob?" I asked.
"No," said Bob, "I've got to make some collections for Father and I can't get away so early. But say, here's an idea! I can go right away after dinner, and I'll get out the double team and we'll drive down there,—the three of us,—it's only a little over twelve miles,—and row over to the island. We can have supper with the crowd and then take Flo in and drive back by moonlight. What do you say?"
It sounded perfectly good to us, and so we all ​agreed without any coaxing, and then Bob and Flo went off home.
Next morning Bob stopped as he went by, to say that his father would let him have the horses, all right, but that he couldn't get away until three-thirty. It was a dandy day, and Bess and I and Uncle Rob spent the morning out under the sweet-apple tree, Bess darning and Uncle Rob reading to us about Blennerhasset and Aaron Burr, so as to get "in the atmosphere," he said; and I brought out a picture of the Blennerhasset house, painted by a woman in town who never took any lessons, and who traded the picture to Dad in exchange for a frame for another one. It was all right, only you know the house was built on a curve, sort of like a horse-shoe, and in the picture you couldn't tell whether the curve was toward you or away from you, or whether it stood up in the air like an arch;—it appeared a different way every time you looked at it, and kept you sort of worried for fear that something was the matter with your eyes. She had put some of this shiny flitter all over the trees and roof, too, to make it rich, she said. It wasn't meant ​for snow, because the trees were all green, awfully green, and the flitter was part red, and pink, and yellow, and all sorts of colors. Uncle Rob said he was glad he saw the picture, because it made him feel differently toward Aaron Burr; for a great deal might be excused in a fellow who was in a habit of seeing things like that. Bess took the picture away from me and put in under her darning basket; because she said that she couldn't forget it while it was in sight. We remembered the picture afterward, when we were coming back from the picnic;—but it wasn't hurt any. Dad said we ought to have been more careful of it for he had to give as good as two frames for it, because the woman had painted the other picture on both sides of an academy-board, and had to have it framed on both sides. It was the same scene, only one was in winter and the other in summer, and she wanted them so that she could have out the one which fitted the season best. She was an awfully clever woman. The summer scene had swans on the water, and in the winter one, she changed them into icebergs. It changed the size of things so, by comparison, that when you looked at first one and then the other, you ​felt as if you were having the "bigs and littles." It's a lucky thing that she couldn't have them both out at the same time.
After dinner Bess and Uncle Rob came over and we waited for Bob. At three-thirty, sharp, he drove up, and, say, the horses were feeling fine. We made Uncle Rob sit with him, on the front seat, because the scenery would all be new to him; but Bess and I sat with our chins on the back of the seat the most of the way.
"Pretty good horses," said Uncle Rob, when we were started.
"Yep," said Bob. "They've only one fault, and that's when they see a railroad train."
"Scared?" asked Uncle Rob.
"No," said Bob. "They don't wait to be scared!"
"What do they do?" asked Uncle Rob.
"Don't know. They never do it twice alike."
"Any railroad tracks where we're going?"
"All the way down one side of the road."
"Sounds interesting," said Uncle Rob. "What's on the other side?"
"Thirty foot bank and the Ohio River."
"More interesting still," said Uncle Rob.
​I knew that Bob was testing his nerve; but he didn't scare for a cent.
"Well," said Bob, seeing that Uncle Rob was game, "there isn't any danger, for Father wouldn't let me take the team unless I'd promise to get out and hold them by the bits when the trains passed;—and, anyway, there isn't a train more 'n a couple of times a day."
"And you're going to get out and hold 'em if a train comes?" I asked, for I knew that Bob was a splendid driver.
"I said I would," said Bob. "I would anyway," he added, "with a girl in."
We crossed the bridge over the Muskingum and drove through the west side of town, and Bob pointed out where the old Fort Harmar used to stand; and by and by we swung into the river road, and it sure was fine! The day was gorgeous, and all along the river bank were great masses of trumpet-flower in full bloom, loaded down with deep orange clusters of sturdy, long-tubed flowers, and glossy, sharp-cut leaves. We always called it Virginia creeper; but that isn't the right name. And all about and mixed with it was wild clematis gone to seed, clambering madly all over and about ​it and tangling and untangling itself, and veiling everything with the smoky streamers of its seed-whorls. The vines wrestled with each other clear down to the water, and that was yellow, as usual, and scarcely rippling at all;—and away over on the other side, a half a mile across, were the blue Virginia hills. It was warm and still, with just a little rustle of the leaves, and now and then the splash of a catfish in the water. It seems to me that I never saw the colors so beautiful before; and Uncle Rob was so enthusiastic over everything, that we were all desperately proud because all of this "belonged" to us. I believe that the only time we ever seem to realize that everything beautiful really belongs to each one of us, is when we take some one to see some particular place or thing that he has never seen before. We feel, for the moment, all the pride of possession, and all of the generosity and delight of sharing a real treasure with him. (Isn't it odd how words and phrases come, and arrange themselves right, when we are thinking big thoughts? I believe we'd all use better language, if we thought better thoughts. I know I surprise myself sometimes, when I forgot the way I'm saying things, ​in the interest of what I'm thinking. The smartest part of me is the part that gets away when I look for it.)
Well, sir, all along that drive, Bess and I and Bob felt exactly as if we had a big paper bag of good things and were passing them out one at a time, and watching to see how Uncle Rob would enjoy the flavor of each. Whenever we'd come to a bend in the road where we knew there would be a particularly beautiful view, we'd lean away forward and give a glance to see if it was still there; and then we'd watch Uncle Rob's face, to see how he liked our latest gift. I tell you we surely did have a fine time. If we'd owned every foot of the country in sight, we wouldn't have felt one scrap prouder or more important.
By and by I saw Bess suddenly prick up her ears. "What is it?" I asked.
"Thought I heard a train coming."
Bob stopped the horses and listened; but there was no sound. "False alarm," said Uncle Rob. We went on.
In about a minute the sound came again. It was a peal of thunder. "There, that's what I ​heard!" said Bess. "It was farther off, and I thought it was the rumbling of a train."
"Where does it come from?" said Uncle Rob. "It sounds like 'a bolt out of a clear sky.'"
We couldn't see any clouds then; for the hills cut them off; but in a few moments the birds began calling and flying about wildly, and little ripples went fluttering all over the water; and then, suddenly the sun was put out, and the sky went black, all in a minute.
"Coming up fast, isn't she?" said Uncle Rob. "Any shelter near?"
"Nope," said Bob. "Not a thing."
"Well, suppose we put up the side-curtains—and look pleasant."
We got the curtains up just in time, and then the storm broke. Gee, but it was a corker! The rain just simply slopped over as if something up above was too full; and the thunder and lightning kept up a steady squabble to see which would get there first. It was like being right in the middle of Balaklava; and every time that the artillery went off, which was all the time, those horses did stunts. You never saw anything like it. ​They tried to go backward and forward and up in the air at the same time, and they pretty near did it. I don't see how Bob ever kept them in the road; but there wasn't any other place for 'em to go except into the river, and so it was up to him. As the storm went on, they kept getting worse—sort of accumulating more scare all the time—and by and by Bob said that he guessed Bess would better get out, even if it was pouring—that is, if he could hold 'em still long enough—but he couldn't. Every time he would try to stop 'em they'd back, and keep on backing and doing sixteen other things at the same time, and so after two or three attempts, he said,—
"Bess, I think it's too wet for you to get out."
"I think so too," she said. "I didn't bring my rubbers," and then we all laughed. Bess held her nerve beautifully.
We kept on down the road, and gradually the horses quieted some, although the storm didn't seem to die down much.
"Nice day for a picnic," said Uncle Rob.
"All kinds of a fine day," said Bob.
"Going to sit on the grass and eat sandwiches for supper, I suppose, Bess?"
​"No, I'm going to sit on the book you were reading this morning, if you have it with you."
"I haven't, Bessie, my dear. It lies under the sweet-apple tree, along with your darning and the picture of the wonderful house which flaps its wings like a jub-jub bird. It is no longer dry. You'll have to stand on one foot while you eat your sandwiches. That way, you can keep the other from getting wet."
"They'll be soaked through and through," moaned Bess.
"What? Your feet or the sandwiches?"
"No, no! Everything—everybody at the picnic."
"They certainly will," said Uncle Rob.
"Want to turn around?" asked Bob.
"Indeed no," said Uncle Rob, "not unless the rest of you have a chill in your ardor. A wet picnic is likely to be interesting. Maybe it was at such a one that the lady got the conception of her picture of the house." I giggled and Bess looked mystified.
The storm was still holding on pretty steadily, and the thunder seemed to stay right overhead, and it took all of Bob's attention for the horses, ​though they were behaving a lot better than they had been. "Do you think we'd better go back, Bob?" asked Bess.
Bob shook his head. "This sort of thing just makes me want to win," he said. "I hate to be worsted!"
So we kept on, and the storm kept right along with us, and the road got to be something dreadful. We weren't much wet; for the storm had not gotten in front of us; but the horses were perfectly soused.
We were between two and three miles above the island, when Bess pricked up her ears again. She has awfully quick hearing. "What was that?" she said.
"Sounded like a fog-horn," said Uncle Rob.
"It wasn't," said Bess, with conviction. "Look out."
Uncle Rob leaned out and looked through the wet trees along the bank, the moist twigs slapping his face; then he turned back. "That, Bessie, my dear, was the whistle of a steam-boat,—a fine large steamboat working her way up the river. On board, she has a picnic party—a wet but happy picnic party, which will eat its ​sandwiches sitting upon nice dry chairs in the cabin. Is there anything more that you wish to know?"
We all leaned out and watched the boat pass up the river. "A pretty boat, isn't she?" said Uncle Rob. "And there is music aboard, and dancing,—and sandwiches! You don't happen—to have a sandwich with you, do you, Elizabeth?—one that isn't working?"
Bess shook her head. "If I had, it wouldn't go begging for shelter," she said.
Bob grinned. "There's a chocolate sundae in one of my pockets," he said. "It was chocolate creams when I started; but the last time that I put my hand in, I couldn't recognize them. I'm not offering you any, because the pocket would have to go with them, and I need it."
We had passed the boat very quickly; for the horses were still tearing along and keeping Bob busy with the reins; but presently I got interested. "Where you going, Bob?" I asked.
"Don't know," said Bob.
"Why don't you turn around," said I. "Don't you know when Fate has worsted you?"
"Chet," said Uncle Rob,—"I saw you run​ning on the top rail of the fence this morning. Why didn't you turn around?"
"Couldn't stop long enough," I said;—"and if I could, it wasn't wide enough to turn on."
"Same here," said Bob. "This road has a hill on each side,—one goes up and the other goes down,—and we don't want to do either."
Well, we went more than a mile farther before we found a place where we could turn around, and that brought us into a small town. Bob said that we could get out and go back on the train if we wanted to—if there should happen to be a train;—but we were all game and decided to stick to him and take our chances. So we turned around and started back. The thunder and lightning were about over; but it was raining in sheets, and as soon as we turned, it drove straight into the carriage so that Uncle Rob came back onto the back seat with Bess and me. Bob would have come back, too, only the lines weren't long enough to reach, and as he had forgotten to put in the apron, he stood for a good soaking.
And then that rambunctous storm saw that we were giving it the slip, and it stopped for a moment, and then came back after us, full tilt! Gee, ​it landed on us from all directions at once, and the thunder and lightning had a catch-as-catch-can wrestling match, square over our heads. It sure was a great show, and the horses got hold of a lot of new stunts they hadn't thought of before, and things got as interesting as they were on the way down;—and then, at last, when there came a little lull in the storm, we heard a train whistle!
Bob tried to pull up. "Guess we'd better all get out," he said. "The track is right above us here, and the horses are ugly enough now;—and anyway, I will have to." So he drove as slowly as he could, and got the horses quieted down some, and luckily there was no hard thunder for a few minutes, and Uncle Rob climbed over the seat and took the lines, and then Bob jumped out and got to their heads, and between the two of them, they brought us to a standstill,—or nearly so. Then Bess and I got out and stood in the gutter, because it was better than the mud, and Uncle Rob took one horse's head and Bob kept the other, and then we stood and waited for the train. We could hear it rumbling nearer and nearer, and the boys took a fresh grip on the bits and—we kept on waiting.
​By and by the rumbling seemed to begin to grow fainter. Uncle Rob cocked his head. "Wind's changing," he said.
Then, suddenly, Bess snickered, and at the same moment came a faint, weak little whistle screech, and Bob and I looked the way she was pointing, and there, clear across the river, half a mile away, was a nice little railroad train, trundling along as innocently as could be!
For one second Bob looked as if he was going to say something to match the expression of his face; and then he caught sight of Uncle Rob, who was standing with his back that way, his feet planted ankle deep in the red clay and both hands on the bit of his horse,—and he grinned, instead.
"Hold hard there," he said,—"there's the train!"
Uncle Rob turned and looked across the river. "H'm," he said, interestedly, "passenger train, isn't it? Two coaches and a mail car. Nice little train."
"Yes," said Bob, "engine's got a smoke-stack, a cow-catcher, and a tender. 'Most as pretty as the boat, isn't it?"
Then we all laughed.
​"Think it's safe to go in out of the rain now?" asked Uncle Rob. "Nice horsie. They maligned you! You aren't afraid of railroad trains, are you? You never so much as batted an eye when that one went by."
Then we all piled back into the carriage, taking a part of the country road with us.
"It's a shame," said Bob, "to have got you all out that way; but I forgot all about the railroad on the other side of the river;—and this road is so desperately narrow right here, and besides, I'd promised."
"No apology necessary," said Uncle Rob. "We owe you a vote of thanks for having the train go by on the other side, instead of over here. Much obliged to you."
Bob laughed, and we started on again. The storm had settled down into a steady rain and blow with a good deal of thunder and lightning, and the road got to be something awful. The clay gathered on the horses' feet and then more stuck to that, and then more to that, until they looked as if they were walking with a peck measure on each foot; and the road was as slippery as grease, and there were washouts every little ways.
​By and by it began to get dark, and I began to get worried. There had been some washouts when we came down, and I knew they'd be enough sight worse by now; and in the dark, and with those nervous horses—well, things didn't look good to me,—not a bit, they didn't.
Once or twice we lurched pretty hard, and so, after a while I unbuttoned the curtain of the carriage on my side, the side away from the river, and rolled it up.
"What are you doing that for?" asked Uncle Rob.
"It's close in here," I said.
The carriage lurched again and the horses did some struggling. The night had become perfectly black, and we had no carriage-lamps. "Say," I said, "I've been sitting this way until I'm cramped to pieces. Let's change places."
"How?" asked Uncle Rob.
"Why," I said, "you sit on this side and take Bess on your lap. That'll give us all more room."
"All right, Chet," said Uncle Rob, and we changed;—and when there came a flash of lightning, I saw that he was sitting away forward with Bess on his knees, and one foot out on the step ​of the carriage,—and then I knew that he had understood.
After that we were all very quiet. The wind blew and rattled the carriage curtains, the wheels lurched and slid, and the horses snorted and struggled through the greasy clay. Bob had not spoken for a long time; but with every flash of lightning I could catch a glimpse of his face, very white, and wet, and his jaw set hard.
"Are you frightened, Bess?" I said, after a while; for she was so quiet.
"No," she said, and her voice was perfectly natural.
"Then why don't you talk?"
"I—I have some thinking to do," she said.
I said "all right." To tell the truth, I was doing some pretty hard thinking, myself, and wasn't absolutely in need of conversation.
Presently, in the glare of a flash of lightning, I thought I saw something that made me lean forward and wait for another flash. When it came, I caught my breath. There was a long streak of blood across Bob's white cheek.
I waited a moment. I didn't want to frighten Bess. The next flash showed more blood which ​he was trying to wipe away with a red-streaked hand.
"What's the matter, Bob?" I asked, and I knew that my voice sounded odd and strained.
Bob didn't answer for a moment, and then the words came thick and sulky:—"I've got the blamed nosebleed, and I've used up all my handkerchiefs!"
The relief was so great that we all burst out laughing, and then I knew that Bess and Uncle Rob had seen, too. Bob joined in the laugh as well as he could, and reached for the first of the three handkerchiefs which were thrust over his shoulder.
The laugh had broken the strain, and somehow, although there was still a mile or so of dreadful road before us, we seemed to have gotten all over our worry, just as if we were on safe ground again. Uncle Rob started in, half joking and half in earnest:—"Now, Bess, if this vehicle begins to keel toward the river, I'm going to throw you out, and it will be up to you to catch hold of something on that hillside out there. Have your fingernails and toe-nails and teeth ready, and don't let anything get away from you; for if you slide ​back into the clay of this road, it will take a derrick to get you out, and a flat car to get you to where we can remove a few tons of superfluous soil."
"All right," said Bess; "but please choose a place where there are no thistles. I saw whole beds of them on that bank, as we came down."
"So did I," said Uncle Rob. "They had nice big purple blossoms on them, and pretty, feathery, fly-away seeds;—but I haven't seen any at all for more than an hour, so don't worry."
"No, nor you haven't seen anything else either. Never mind. Toss me where you choose. I'm not afraid." And I honestly believe that she was not.
It was queer how the weight seemed to have lifted off of all of us. I am perfectly sure that if anything had happened then, we would have had our wits about us so well that we would have known just what to do, and wouldn't have been hurt at all. It makes a lot of difference, when you are in danger, whether you are scared stiff, or have yourself so well in hand that you are all on the alert to meet whatever comes and do the best thing, right on the spur of the moment. That's why a coward is always getting hurt;—he gets ​rattled and has no confidence, and then the least thing bowls him over, because his wits are all in a jumble and not in working order. At least, that's the way I look at it.
Well, by and by we came to where the road turns away from the river, and we jolted over the railroad track, and pretty soon we were back in town—and then across the bridge—and then up the hill to our street.
Gee, but we were—hungry! We hadn't had a thing to eat since dinner, and it was nine o'clock. Bess wanted us all to go into her house and help her make a raid on the refrigerator; but Bob couldn't, because he said he had to get the horses into the stable first of anything. So we all leaned over and shook hands with him and told him what a perfectly fine time we'd had; and he said he hoped to be able to repeat it in detail some time, and Uncle Rob said to be sure to give him plenty of advance notice, as he was liable to be called away on business suddenly, and wouldn't want to miss the chance—of being called away at the right time. You never saw a wet crowd in such good spirits in your life, and we laughed and chaffed, until Bob had turned the corner.
​I had to go home to get into some dry clothes before eating. Bess had run up the steps and I looked after her. "Hasn't she got the most grit of any girl you ever saw?" I said to Uncle Rob.
"She has something better than grit, Chester," he said. "Grit puts you on a tension—confidence leaves you normal. Which has the best 'staying power,' do you think? Turn that over in your mind a little—it's interesting," and he ran up the steps after her.