As he did so, he heard one boy call out to another in that piercing treble which boys employ in making their confidential communications to one another, across a street, "S-a-y-, did you know that Hank Glen 'd got back?
and they say he looks pale yet ?" "Has he ?" the reply came in high falsetto, palpably tinged with that fine scorn of a healthy boy, for anything which does not exactly square with his young highness's ideas.

"Come back to mammy, eh?
Well, it's a pity she ever let him go away from her.

Hope she'll keep him with her now.

He don't seem to do well out of reach of her apron strings." The whole truth flashed upon him: Envious ones had slandered him at home, as a coward.
He walked onward in a flurry of rage.

The thought that he had done anything to deserve criticism could not obtrude itself between the joints of his triple-plated armor of self-esteem.
A swelling contempt for his village critics flushed his heart.
"Spiteful, little-minded country boobies," he said to himself with an impatient shake of his head, as if to adjust his hair, which was his usual sign of excitement, "they've always hated me because I was above them.