Martin reached this conclusion early in his son's life--Bill was
nine--and he determined to grind the objectionable tendency out
of him. The youngster had a way of stopping for no reason
whatever and just standing there. For all his iron self-control,
it nearly drove the energetic man to violence. He would leave
Bill in the barn to shovel the manure into the litter-carrier--a
good fifteen-minute job; he would return in half an hour to find
him sitting in the alleyway, staring down into his idle scoop.

"God Almighty!" Martin would explode. "How many times must I tell
you to do a thing?"

The boy would look up slowly, like a frightened colt, expecting a
blow, his non-resistance as angering as his indolence. Gazing at
the enormous, imposing person who was his father, he would simply
wait with wide open eyes--eyes that reminded Martin of a calf
begging for a bucket of milk.

"I'm asking you! Answer when I speak. Have you lost the use of
your tongue? What are you, anyway --a lump of jelly? Didn't I
tell you to clean this barn? It's fly time and no wonder the cows
suffer and slack up on their milk when there is a lazy bones like
you around who won't even help haul away the manure."

"I was just a-goin' to."

"You should have been through long ago. What are you good for, is
what I'd like to find out. You eat a big bellyful and what do you
give in return? Do you expect to go through the world like