He had scraped away the charring with a piece of broken glass, and, as a result of his endeavors, had really a spear with a point of undoubted sharpness and great hardness.

He took huge pride in his new weapon, and carried it to school with him for days and on his various woodland expeditions, but there had come no chance to rescue any distressful maiden anywhere, and the envy and admiration of the other boys had but resulted in emulation and in the appearance of similar warlike gear among them.
He had tired of carrying the thing about, and had for some time left it peacefully at home, leaning beside the hog-pen.

Now all was different.
The time had come! He would have revenge, and have it in a gory way.
As the South Sea islanders treated their foes, his should be treated.
He would go upon the war-path, and as for Alf--well, he was sorry for him in a general way, but all mercy was dead within his breast specifically.

He remembered something in the reader: "'Die! spawn of our kindred! Die! traitor to Lara!' As he spake, there was blood on the spear of Mudara!" There must be blood, and he laid his plans with what he considered the very height of savage craft and ingenuity.
The father of Alf was a sturdy man and good one, but he had a weakness.
He was the chief supporter in the neighborhood of the itinerant minister who exhorted throughout this portion of the country, and he had imbibed, perhaps, too much of a fancy for hearing himself talk at revival meetings, and for hearing himself in long prayers at home.

His petitions covered a great range of subjects, and he was regular in their presentation.