"Why, John Big Moose was talking about that the other day," Whitey
exclaimed, "and how hard it is for one body of people to understand and
sympathize with another, and about that sayin', 'Man's inhumanity to man
makes countless thousands mourn.' Of course, you know that saying.
Bill?"

"'Course," answered Bill. "My father was allus mentionin' of it."

"Your old man was a blacksmith, wa'n't he, Bill?" Buck Higgins asked.

"Sure."

"Seems t' me 'twould 'a' bin more in the way o' sense if he'd talked
'bout man's unhumanness t' hosses," Buck said lightly.

Bill ignored this, and got back to the serious side of the subject.
"It's somethin' t' make a critter think," he declared. "Take white folks
an' Injuns, f'r instance. They ain't never rightly understood each
other, 'cause they ain't never bin rightly in tune with each other, an'
that's another way o' sayin' they ain't bin in symp'thy. An' th' only
way they could get that way would be t' tell, outspoke, what they thinks
o' each other. Now they's Injun, here. He's bin our friend for some
time, an' we bin his, but no one ain't never knowed his _real_ 'pinion
of us, an' I think it'd be some help in adjustin' matters all round if
we did."

Shielding his mouth with his hand, Shorty Palmer turned to Buck Higgins,
and spoke in a hoarse whisper, that could be heard distinctly by
everybody. "Bill's like one o' them big express trains you see at th'
Junction," Shorty hissed. "Takes him some time t' get started, but he