Here in this western village I stand and
fling my challenge to the world. 'On the lip of not the greatest of you,'
I cry, 'has life been more sweet.'"
He turned from Valmore to the men upon the stone.
"Make a study of my life," he commanded. "It will be a revelation to you.
With a smile I greet the morning; I swagger in the noontime; and in the
evening, like Socrates of old, I gather a little group of you benighted
villagers about me and toss wisdom into your teeth, striving to teach you
judgment in the use of great words."
"You talk an almighty lot about yourself, John," grumbled Freedom Smith,
taking his pipe from his mouth.
"The subject is complex, it is varied, it is full of charm," Telfer
answered, laughing.
Taking a fresh supply of tobacco and paper from his pocket, he rolled and
lighted a cigarette. His fingers no longer trembled. Flourishing his cane
he threw back his head and blew smoke into the air. He thought that in
spite of the roar of laughter that had greeted Freedom Smith's comment, he
had vindicated the honour of art and the thought made him happy.
To the newsboy, who had been leaning against the storefront lost in
admiration, it seemed that he had caught in Telfer's talk an echo of the
kind of talk that must go on among men in the big outside world.
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