My Tim was a sturdy little
fellow whose booted legs scarce touched the floor, whose tousled black
head hardly showed above the desk-top. His cheeks would turn crimson
at the thought of woman's gloves on those brown hands. His tongue
would cleave to his mouth in a woman's presence, let alone his lying to
her. That was the real Tim--the rare Tim. To my eyes he was but a
small boy; to my mind he was a mighty man. The first reader that
presented such knotty problems to his intellectual side was but part of
the impedimenta of his youth, and was no fair measure of his real size.
That very day he had fought with me and for me; not because I was in
the right, but because I was his brother.
A lean, cadaverous boy from along the mountain, a born enemy of the
lads of the village, had dared me. I endured his insults until the
time came when further forbearance would have been a disgrace, and then
I closed with him. In the front of the little circle drawn about us,
right outside there in the school-yard, Tim stood. As we pitched to
and fro, the cadaverous boy and I, Tim's shrill cry came to me, and
time and again I caught sight of his white face and small clinched
hands waving wildly.
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