Six
words, spoken with the mild drawl of the cultured Southerner, were
sufficient to prove his title. No amount of mud or tatters or physical
distress could take away the inborn charm of blood. No haggardness or
pain could detract from the fine, clean movement of the lips, or sully
the deep intelligence of the eyes.
His audience at once found a new interest in him. He was not what they
had expected him to be; this boy was no scatter-brained country lout,
with the dream of the circus at the back of his folly.
He, of course, could not have known that during the ten minutes in
which he lay unconscious on the huge pad a score of these curious,
sympathetic strollers, partially or wholly dressed, had come out to
gaze upon him, each delivering a characteristic opinion as to his
purpose, but all of them roughly compassionate. Without exception,
they looked upon him as one of the show-sick youths who, in those
days, as now, succumb too readily to the lure of sawdust and spangles.
More than one scoffing jest was uttered over his unconscious head.
Now they realized that he was not what they had thought him to be.
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