But it takes a heap out of a man,
getting scared. Whenever I look on a lot of green trees and cattle
and horses, and the sun, to say nothing of women and children, and
listen to music, or feel a horse eating up the ground under me, 2.10
in the sand, I hate to think of leaving it, and I try to prevent it.
Besides, I don't like the proposition of going, I don't know where.
That's why I get seared. But he says that it's no more than turning
down the light and turning it up again. They used to call me a
dreamer in Mexico, because I kept seeing things that no one else had
thought of, and laid out railways and tapped mines for the future;
but I was nothing to him. I'm a high-and-dry hedge-clipper
alongside. I'm betting on him all the time; but no one seems to be
working to make his dreams come true, except himself. I don't
count; I'm no good, no real good. I'm only fit to run the
commissariat, and see that he gets enough to eat, and has a safe
camel, and so on.
Why doesn't some one else help him? He's working for humanity.
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