"Say, I'm awful sorry," he said. "Can't I git somethin'? You didn't eat
no breakfast."
"Oh, all I want is sleep, Tim. I will be all right tomorrow," replied
Cameron, touched by the tone of sympathy in Tim's voice. "You are a fine
little chap. Trot along and let me sleep."
But no sleep came to Cameron, partly because of the hammer knocking in
his head, but chiefly because of the thoughts set going by Tim. Cameron
was not abnormally egotistical, but he was delightedly aware of the new
place he held in the community ever since the now famous Dominion Day
picnic, and, now that the harvest rush had somewhat slackened, social
engagements had begun to crowd upon him. Dances and frolics, coon hunts
and raisings were becoming the vogue throughout the community, and no
social function was complete without the presence of Cameron. But
this sudden popularity had its embarrassments, and among them, and
threatening to become annoying, was the hostility of Perkins, veiled as
yet, but none the less real. Moreover, behind Perkins stood a band of
young fellows of whom he was the recognised leader and over whom his
ability in the various arts and crafts of the farm, his physical prowess
in sports, his gay, cheery manner, and, it must be said, the reputation
he bore for a certain fierce brute courage in rough-and-tumble fighting,
gave him a sort of ascendency.
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