Now I spoke sharply to the boy. He raised his head and fixed one red eye
on me, for the other was hidden by his hand.
"I guesst you was never hit on the eye by a ball, was ye?" he stuttered.
"I guess I have been," was my reply. "I was a good round-town player,
and you never saw me crying like that, either."
"I was playin' sock-ball," snuffled the boy, and a solitary tear rolled
down his snub nose. He flicked it away with his right hand, and this act
disclosed to me a great bluish swelling, from under which a bit of eye
was twinkling mournfully at me. The boy was hurt; my heart went out to
him, for the memory of my own sock-ball and tickley-bender days came back
to me.
"Come, come," I said more kindly, laying a hand on the black head.
"Brace up, Daniel, for I must call the others in, and you don't want them
to see you crying. Dare to be like the great Daniel, who wasn't even
afraid of the wild beasts."
"But Dan'el in the Lion's Den never played sock-ball," whimpered the boy,
covering each eye with a chubby fist as he rubbed away the traces of his
tears.
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