You ought to know
better than that; you ought to know for yourselves that there'll be
need for more men in these woods than there has ever been before. But
if you don't; if you can't see it that way, why not come around and let
me have a fair chance to talk things over with you, myself, before you
decide to turn on this job? I want you to remember that a man who is a
liar in one thing is mighty likely to talk loose-tongued, no matter
what he preaches."
And there, without lifting his eyes from the floor, Big Louie cleared
his throat and made answer.
"Maybe," he retorted. "Maybe. And maybe not so sure, either! I have
listened to big words before now, me, that have put no food under my
belt, no coat to my back."
Steve's smile was unruffled and kind. No matter what the hidden
verdict of the rest of that room might be, he had known already that
Big Louie was past saving. For there were not so many like him among
those hills but what the type was instantly recognizable, wherever it
was encountered. He had the frame of a giant--Big Louie--the splendid
legacy of generations of men who had lived out of doors. But there was
no depth in his seal-brown eyes which always seemed to brood; no
decision in any move of his ponderous body. He had little chin; he had
no name, save Big Louie which his size alone had sired. And Steve was
very patient in making answer.
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