"Look where his finger tips worked through the dirt and the bark,
right down to the solid wood," murmured Joe.
They looked at each other uneasily. "My gosh," said Joe, "think of the
way I handled him the other night! He--he let me trip him up and throw
him!" He shuddered. "Why, if he'd laid hold of me just once, he'd of
squashed my muscles like they was rotten fruit!"
Of one accord they turned back to the house. At the door they paused
and peered in, as into the den of a bear. There sat Bull on the
floor--he risked his weight to none of the crazy chairs--still looking
at his stained hands. Then they drew back and again looked at each
other with scared eyes and spoke in undertones.
"After this maybe he won't want to follow orders. Maybe he'll get sort
of free and easy and independent."
"If he does, you watch Dad give him his marching orders. Dad won't
have no one lifting heads agin' him."
"Neither will I," snapped Joe. "I guess we own this house. I guess we
support that big hulk.
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