Beside the pan was a dipper and a large plate of bread, and
at one end of the table was a dish of fine honey.
A boy of about fourteen leaned upon the table, his bent shoulders
making him look like an old man. His hickory shirt, like that of
Grant, was still wet with sweat, and discolored here and there with
grease, or green from grass. His hair, freshly wet and combed,
was smoothed away from his face, and shone in the light of the
kerosene lamp. As he ate, he stared at Howard, as if he would
make an inventory of each thread of the visitor's clothing.
"Did I look like that at his age?" thought Howard.
"You see we live jest about the same's ever," said Grant as they
began eating, speaking with a grim, almost challenging inflection.
The two brothers studied each other curiously, as they talked of
neighborhood scenes. Howard seemed incredibly elegant and
handsome to them all, with his rich, soft clothing, his spotless
linen, and his exquisite enunciation and ease of speech. He had
always been "smooth-spoken," and he had become "elegantly
persuasive," as his friends said of him, and it was a large factor in
his success.
Every detail of the kitchen, the heat, the flies buzzing aloft, the
poor furniture, the dress of the people-all smote him like the lash
of a wire whip.
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