I haven't one of his better features. Say, Bud, I'm a pretty cold sort
of man. I'd have made a fair sort of Puritan if I'd been on earth a
century or so ago. I've little enough humor. I don't care for play.
I don't care for half the fun most folks see in life. I'd sooner work
than eat. And Ronny--well, Ronny isn't just any of those things. He's
just a boy, full of every sort of human notion that's opposite to mine.
And I'm crazy for him. Say, Bud, I love him better than anything in
life. If anything happened to that boy, why, I guess all that's worth
while in me would die plumb out."
He paused. Bud's shrewd eyes remained studying the emotion-lit
features of this usually unemotional man. He felt he was being
admitted to a peep at a soul that was rarely, if ever, bared, and he
wondered at the reason. Was it a calculated display, or was it the
outlet for an emotion altogether too strong for the man's restraint?
He inclined to the former belief.
"Nothin' _has_ happened?" he enquired presently, in his direct fashion.
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