He had believed too much in his
fellow-man. For the first time in his life he resented the friendly,
almost affectionate satire of his many friends. It was amusing, it was
delightful; but down beneath it all there was a little touch of ridicule.
He had more brains than any of them, and he had known it in a way; he had
led them sometimes, too, as on raids against cattle-stealers, and in a
brush with half-breeds and Indians; as when he stood for the legislature;
but he felt now for the first time that he had not made the most of
himself, that there was something hurting to self-respect in this prank
played upon him. When he came to that point his resentment went higher.
He thought of Molly Mackinder, and he heard all too acutely the vague
veiled references to her in their satire. By the time Gow Johnson spoke
he had mastered himself, however, and had made up his mind. He stood
still for a moment.
"Now, please, my cue," he said quietly and satirically from the trees
near the wings.
He was smiling, but Gow Johnson's prognostication was right; and ere long
the audience realised that he was right.
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