once more. "There's something wrong—something dirty about this life."
"Is there?" Uncle Jasper leaned across the table, and once again the old ghost of a hope was flickering behind his eyes. "Wash off the dirt with soap, then."
"Soap won't touch some kinds of dirt. Uncle Jas, I'm sick inside."
A picture often recurred to Jasper Lanning of the little boy he had first seen, straight, handsome—too handsome. It came home to him now, and he winked his eyes hard.
"Who's been talkin' to you?"
He thought of the grinning men of the saloon; the hidden words. Somebody might have gone out and insulted Andy to his face for the first time. There had been plenty of insults in the past two years, since Andy could pretend to manhood, but none that might not be overlooked. "Who's been talkin' to you?" repeated Uncle Jasper. "Confound that Buck Heath! He's the cause of all the trouble!"
"Buck Heath! Who's he? Oh, I remember. What's he got to do with the rotten life we lead here, Uncle Jas?"
"So?" said the old man slowly. "He ain't nothin'?"
"Bah!" remarked Andy. "You want me to go out and fight him? I won't. I got no love for fighting. It doesn't buy me anything. I don't like to talk to people when they're mad. Makes me sort of sickish."
"Heaven above!" the older man invoked. "Ain't you got shame? My blood in you, too!"
"Don't talk like that," said Andy with a certain amount of reserve which was not natural to him. "You bother me. I want a little silence and a chance to think things
