A few jolts of the needle has put a clapper to his
eternal moanin'. Go on with your work. Smash the boats. 'Tis
nothin' I care. 'Tis well I know my own crooked back is worth more
to me than the necks of the scum of the world below there."
"If you felt that way, why didn't you join us?" I queried.
"Because I like you no better than them an' not half so well. They
are what you an' your fathers have made 'em. An' who in hell are you
an' your fathers? Robbers of the toil of men. I like them little.
I like you and your fathers not at all. Only I like myself and me
crooked back that's a livin' proof there ain't no God and makes
Browning a liar."
"Join us now," I urged, meeting him in his mood. "It will be easier
for your back."
"To hell with you," was his answer. "Go ahead an' smash the boats.
You can hang some of them. But you can't touch me with the law.
'Tis me that's a crippled creature of circumstance, too weak to raise
a hand against any man--a feather blown about by the windy contention
of men strong in their back an' brainless in their heads.
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