the world was a merciful silence--to let him grub in his books now and
then, or else to tell him how to go about some simple work, such as
digging with a pick. Here one's muscles worked, and there was no
problem to disturb wits which were still gathering wool in the pages
of some old tale.

But they were shrilling new directions at him; perhaps they had been
calling to him several times.

"You blamed idiot, are you goin' to stand there all day? We didn't
give you that stump to rest on. Pull it up!"

He started with a sense of guilt and tugged up. His fingers slipped
off their separate grips, and the stump, though it groaned against the
taproot under the strain, did not come out.

"It don't seem to budge, somehow," said Bull in his big, soft,
plaintive voice. Then he waited for the laughter. There was always
laughter, no matter what he did or said, but he never grew calloused
against it. It was the one pain which ever pierced the mist of his
brain and cut him to the quick. And he was right. There was laughter
again. He stood suffering mutely under it.

The girl's face became grave. She murmured to Harry, "Ever try
praisin' to big stupid?"

"Him? Are you joshin' me, Jessie? What's he ever done to be praised
about?"

"You watch!" said the girl. Growing excited with her idea, she called,