Mandy is too good for a man like Perkins. Why, he isn't safe."
"He's a terror," replied Tim seriously. "They are all scairt of him.
He's a terror to fight. Why, at MacKenzie's raisin' last year he jist
went round foamin' like an old boar and nobody dast say a word to him.
Even Mack Murray was scairt to touch him. When he gets like that he
ain't afraid of nothin' and he's awful quick and strong."
Tim proceeded to enlarge upon this theme, which apparently fascinated
him, with tales of Perkins' prowess in rough-and-tumble fighting. But
Cameron had lost interest and was lying down again with his eyes closed.
"Well," he said, when Tim had finished his recital, "if he is that kind
of a man Mandy should have nothing to do with him."
But Tim was troubled.
"Dad likes him," he said gloomily. "He is a good hand. And ma likes him,
too. He taffies her up."
"And Mandy?" enquired Cameron.
"I don't know," said Tim, still more gloomy. "I guess he kind of makes
her. I'd--I'd jist like to take a lump out of him." Tim's eyes blazed
into a sudden fire. "He runs things on this farm altogether too much."
"Buck up then, Tim, and beat him," said Cameron, dismissing the subject.
"And now I must have some sleep. I have got an awful head on."
Tim was quick enough to understand the hint, but still he hovered about.
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