"Phenie! If you hadn't a sprained ankle, and weren't such a dear in
every other respect, I'd shake you! It isn't fair. Because Ford was
pounced upon by a lot of men--sixteen, Chester told me--"
"I suppose he counted the dead after the battle, and told Ches
truthfully--"
"Phenie, that sounds catty! When you get down on a man, you're perfectly
unmerciful, and Ford doesn't deserve it. You shouldn't judge men by the
narrow, Eastern standards. I know it's awful for a man to drink and
fight. But Ford wasn't altogether to blame. They got him to drinking
and," she went on with her voice lowered to the pitch at which women are
wont to relate horrid, immoral things, "--I wouldn't be surprised if
they put something in it! Such things are done; I've heard of men being
drugged and robbed and all sorts of things. And I'm just as much of an
advocate for temperance as you are, Phenie--and I think Ford was just
right to fight those men. There are," she declared wisely,
"circumstances where it's perfectly just and right for a man to fight. I
can imagine circumstances under which Chester would be justified in
fighting--"
"In case sixteen men should hold his nose and pour drugged whisky down
his throat?" Phenie inquired mildly, curling the end of her braid over a
slim forefinger.
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