a literary habit of mind, to which he was measurably helped by the
fiction he read.

Custer devoured the same books; but he never suspected his father of the
crime of plagiarism, nor guessed that his choicest morsels of adventure
involved a felony. Mrs. Shrimplin felt it necessary to protest:

"No telling with what nonsense you are filling that boy's head!"

"I hope," said Mr. Shrimplin, narrowing his eyes to a slit, as if he
expected to see pictured on the back of their lids the panorama of
Custer's future, "I hope I am filling his head with just nonsense
enough so he will never crawfish, no matter what kind of a proposition
he goes up against!"

Custer colored almost guiltily. Could he ever hope to attain to the grim
standard his father had set for him?

"I wasn't much older than him when I shot Murphy at Fort Worth,"
continued Mr. Shrimplin, "You've heard me tell about him, son--old
one-eye Murphy of Texarcana?"

"He died, I suppose!" said. Mrs. Shrimplin, wringing out her dish-rag.
"Dear knows! I wonder you ain't been hung long ago!"

"Did he die!" rejoined Mr. Shrimplin ironically. "Well, they usually die
when I begin to throw lead!" He tugged fiercely at the ends of his
drooping flaxen mustache and gazed into the wide and candid eyes of his
son.