Rodney Stone | Page 7

me, therefore, while I tell
you of his character as it was in those days, and especially of one very
singular adventure which neither of us are likely to forget.
It was strange to see Jim with his uncle and his aunt, for he seemed to
be of another race and breed to them. Often I have watched them come
up the aisle upon a Sunday, first the square, thick-set man, and then the
little, worn, anxious-eyed woman, and last this glorious lad with his
clear-cut face, his black curls, and his step so springy and light that it
seemed as if he were bound to earth by some lesser tie than the
heavy-footed villagers round him. He had not yet attained his full six
foot of stature, but no judge of a man (and every woman, at least, is one)

could look at his perfect shoulders, his narrow loins, and his proud head
that sat upon his neck like an eagle upon its perch, without feeling that
sober joy which all that is beautiful in Nature gives to us--a vague self-
content, as though in some way we also had a hand in the making of it.
But we are used to associate beauty with softness in a man. I do not
know why they should be so coupled, and they never were with Jim. Of
all men that I have known, he was the most iron-hard in body and in
mind. Who was there among us who could walk with him, or run with
him, or swim with him? Who on all the country side, save only Boy
Jim, would have swung himself over Wolstonbury Cliff, and clambered
down a hundred feet with the mother hawk flapping at his ears in the
vain struggle to hold him from her nest? He was but sixteen, with his
gristle not yet all set into bone, when he fought and beat Gipsy Lee, of
Burgess Hill, who called himself the "Cock of the South Downs." It
was after this that Champion Harrison took his training as a boxer in
hand.
"I'd rather you left millin' alone, Boy Jim," said he, "and so had the
missus; but if mill you must, it will not be my fault if you cannot hold
up your hands to anything in the south country."
And it was not long before he made good his promise.
I have said already that Boy Jim had no love for his books, but by that I
meant school-books, for when it came to the reading of romances or of
anything which had a touch of gallantry or adventure, there was no
tearing him away from it until it was finished. When such a book came
into his hands, Friar's Oak and the smithy became a dream to him, and
his life was spent out upon the ocean or wandering over the broad
continents with his heroes. And he would draw me into his enthusiasms
also, so that I was glad to play Friday to his Crusoe when he
proclaimed that the Clump at Clayton was a desert island, and that we
were cast upon it for a week. But when I found that we were actually to
sleep out there without covering every night, and that he proposed that
our food should be the sheep of the Downs (wild goats he called them)
cooked upon a fire, which was to be made by the rubbing together of
two sticks, my heart failed me, and on the very first night I crept away
to my mother. But Jim stayed out there for the whole weary week--a
wet week it was, too!-- and came back at the end of it looking a deal
wilder and dirtier than his hero does in the picture-books. It is well that

he had only promised to stay a week, for, if it had been a month, he
would have died of cold and hunger before his pride would have let
him come home.
His pride!--that was the deepest thing in all Jim's nature. It is a mixed
quality to my mind, half a virtue and half a vice: a virtue in holding a
man out of the dirt; a vice in making it hard for him to rise when once
he has fallen. Jim was proud down to the very marrow of his bones.
You remember the guinea that the young lord had thrown him from the
box of the coach? Two days later somebody picked it from the roadside
mud. Jim only had seen where it had fallen, and he would not deign
even to point it out to a beggar. Nor would he stoop to give a reason in
such a case, but would answer all remonstrances with a curl of his lip
and a flash