The Call of the Cumberlands

The man behind the grilled wicket read a spirit as swift to resent

ridicule as that of d'Artagnan had been when he rode his orange-colored

nag into the streets of Paris. His face sobered, and his manner became

attentive. He was wondering what complications lay ahead of this raw

creature whose crudity of appearance was so at odds with the compelling

quality of his eyes.

"Do you want a Pullman reservation?" he asked.

"What's thet?" The boy put the question with a steadiness of gaze that

seemed to defy the agent to entertain even a subconsciously critical

thought as to his ignorance.

The ticket man explained sleeping- and dining-cars. He had rather

expected the boy to choose the day coach, but Samson merely said: "I wants the best thar is." He counted out the additional money, and

turned gravely from the window. The sleeping-car to which he was

assigned was almost empty, but he felt upon him the interested gaze of

those few eyes that were turned toward his entrance. He engaged every

pair with a pair very clear and steady and undropping, until somehow

each lip that had started to twist in amusement straightened, and the

twinkle that rose at first glance sobered at second. He did not know

why an old gentleman in a plaid traveling cap, who looked up from a

magazine, turned his gaze out of the window with an expression of grave

thoughtfulness. To himself, the old gentleman was irrelevantly quoting

a line or two of verse: "' ... Unmade, unhandled, unmeet--

Ye pushed them raw to the battle, as ye picked them

raw from the street--'"

"Only," added the old gentleman under his breath, "this one hasn't

even the training of the streets--but with those eyes he'll get

somewhere."

The porter paused and asked to see Samson's ticket. Mentally, he

observed: "Po' white trash!" Then, he looked again, for the boy's eyes were

discomfortingly on his fat, black face, and the porter straightway

decided to be polite. Yet, for all his specious seeming of unconcern,

Samson was waking to the fact that he was a scarecrow, and his

sensitive pride made him cut his meals short in the dining-car, where

he was kept busy beating down inquisitive eyes with his defiant gaze.

He resolved after some thought upon a definite policy. It was a very

old policy, but to him new--and a discovery. He would change nothing in

himself that involved a surrender of code or conviction. But, wherever

it could be done with honor, he would concede to custom. He had come to

learn, not to give an exhibition of stubbornness. Whatever the outside

world could offer with a recommendation to his good sense, that thing

he would adopt and make his own.