“It's well you can laugh at such things, Bill Hinkley, but I can't. There was a time when every mother's son in Kentucky was a man, and could stand up to his rack with the best. If he couldn't keep the top place, he went a peg lower; but he made out to keep the place for which he was intended. Then, if a man disliked his neighbor he crossed over to him and said so, and they went at it like men, and as soon as the pout was over they shook hands, and stood side by side, and shoulder to shoulder, like true friends, in every danger, and never did fellows fight better against Indians and British than the same two men, that had lapped muscles, and rolled in the grain together till you couldn't say whose was whose, and which was which, till the best man jumped up, and shook himself, and gave the word to crow. After that it was all peace and good humor, and they drank and danced together, and it didn't lessen a man in his sweetheart's eyes, though he was licked, if he could say he had stood up like a man, and was downed after a good hug, because he couldn't help it. Now, there's precious little of that. The chap that dislikes his fellow, hasn't the soul to say it out, but he goes aside and sneers and snickers, and he whispers things that breed slanders, and scandals, and bad blood, until there's no trusting anybody; and everything is full of hate and enmity--but then it's so peaceful! Peaceful, indeed! as if there was any peace where there is no confidence, and no love, and no good feeling either for one thing or another.” “Really, Ned, it seems to me you're indignant without any occasion. I am tempted to laugh at you again.” “No, don't. You'd better not.” “Ha! ha! ha! I can not help it, Ned; so don't buffet me. You forced me into many a fight when I was a boy, for which I had no stomach; I trust you will not pummel me yourself because the world has grown so hatefully pacific. Tell me, in plain terms, who I am to fight now.” “Who! who but Stevens?--this fellow Stevens. He's your enemy, you say--comes between you and your sweetheart--between you and your own mother--seems to look down upon you--speaks to you as if he was wiser, and better, and superior in every way--makes you sad and sulky to your best friends--you growl and grumble at him--you hate him--you fear him--” “Fear him!” “Yes, yes, I say fear him, for it's a sort of fear to skulk off from your mother's house to avoid seeing him--” “What, Ned, do you tell me that--do you begrudge me a place with you here, my bed, my breakfast?” “Begrudge! dang it, William Hinkley, don't tell me that, unless you want me to lay heavy hand on your shoulder!”--and the tears gushed into the rough fellow's eyes as he spoke these words, and he turned off to conceal them. “I don't mean to vex you, Ned, but why tell me that I skulk--that I fear this man?” “Begrudge!” muttered the other.