He was black as coal. There was not a hair of white on any of his stockings. There was not a hair of white about his muzzle, or on his forehead, nor in his tail. He was one entire carving from jet.
He looked to Paul Torridon like any other foal, except that he appeared a good bit on the clumsy, heavy side, but John Brett’s face was working with delight. There was nothing about the colt that did not please him. He pointed out the slope of the shoulders, the depth at the heart, the huge bone.
“I gotta have a name for him,” said John Brett.
“Nineveh Second,” suggested Charles.
“He ain’t a second Nineveh. He’s gonna be better than that!” cried John Brett in great excitement.
No one dared to question the head of the clan, but at this speech heads were turned and covert smiles exchanged.
“What’s a name like Nineveh?” cried John Brett. “Nineveh was a town, wasn’t it?”
“It was a town in the Bible,” answered another.
“Who knows something about it?” asked John Brett.
He swept the circle with a stern glance. “Where’s the book-learning in this family? Where’s the women that had ought to know about Bibles and books and things? Do the men have to stay home and waste their time? Is that what’s come of it?”
The women looked gloomily upon one another. They might have pointed out that, if the men were busy with hunting and farming, the women were still busier with mending, sewing, spinning, weaving, milking, cooking, housecleaning, but no one, not even Aunt Ellen, dared to lift a voice when the master of the clan was in temper.
“Nobody!” cried John Brett, his gray beard quivering with wrath. “Nobody! Nobody knows nothing!”
A voice had been rising in Paul Torridon. It had been a great, bold voice when it started at his heart. It was the faintest of squeaking whispers when it came to his lips.
“I do,” he said.
He was not heard, except by Aunt Ellen, who was near him.
She caught him by the shoulder and shook him violently.
“You do?” she asked. “D’you know something about it? Hey, John Brett, here’s one that can talk about it.”
She thrust the boy out from the circle. For the first time in his life all eyes were upon him and not in scorn. Instead there was wonder, interest, hushed attention. Even John Brett was stirred.
“You know sump’n about Nineveh?” he asked, making his voice gentler than usual.
“Yes,” said Paul, but the words made no sound upon his lips.
“Speak out, Paul,” said the big man, still more quietly.
“I . . . I’ll try,” said Paul, his eyes almost straining from his head.
“Go on, then. Was Nineveh a town?”
“It was,” said Paul.
“What kind of a town?”
“A great city,” said Paul.
“Like Louisville?”
“It was much larger.”
“Hey? Like Philadelphia, then?”
“It was larger,” said Paul.
“Like New York?”
“Yes,” said Paul.
John Brett was filled with admiration.
“Now, that’s a dog-gone’ queer thing,” he remarked. “There’s a town as big as New York that’s disappeared so complete that if it didn’t have its name tucked away into the Bible, we’d never’ve had a horse named after it. Now, Paul, I want a name that’s got something to do with this here city. Gimme one, can you?”
The mind of Paul Torridon went around and around.
“Say something, you little putty-faced fool,” said Aunt Ellen in a savage whisper.
John Brett raised his brows and turned his frown upon her. She shrank back in silence.
“It was in Assyria,” said Paul.
“Ah-ha!” cried John Brett. “That’s pretty good. It was in Assyria. How would Assyria do for a name for that colt?”
“It ain’t got sound enough to it,” suggested someone.
“No. It ain’t got enough sound to it,” agreed John Brett. “Now that Assyria, it would have a king, wouldn’t it, Paul?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Paul, who was recovering some of his self-control.
The entire circle was waiting breathlessly upon him and his answers.
“It would have a king, he says,” proceeded John Brett in the same half-anxious, half-soothing tone. “Now, look how we’re getting along. Now, Paul, that there colt is gonna be a king. He’s gonna be a big, black king among hosses. Look at him. Don’t be afraid. He’s just makin’ up to you Paul.”
The black foal approached the boy with sharply pricked ear and began to nibble at his sleeve.
Paul dared not stir.
“Now, Paul,” went on John Brett, “might you be able to tell me something like the name of a king of Assyria?”
“Yes,” said Paul. “They had some very long names.”
“You even know their names?” said Brett curiously.
And a stir of wonder ran rapidly around the circle.
“Some of them,” said Paul. “There was Sennacherib, for instance, and . . .”
“Sennacherib! That’s a longish name, and hard to get a tongue around. Now, Paul, could you think of some of the other names?”
“Yes,” said the boy, “there was Merodach-baladan, and Shalmaneser, and Tiglath Pileser and . . .”
“Hold on, will you?” gasped John Brett. “Them names . . . I never heard nothing like them. But who was the biggest and the greatest king that they had, if you know, Paul?”
“Ashur-bani-pal was the greatest king,” said Paul.
“Ashur-bani-pal,” repeated John Brett slowly. “We don’t seem to get along very well, do we?”
The mare, anxious about her foal, came up behind the boy and sniffed at his neck; her breath sent a shudder through all his body.
“Steady,” said John Brett. “Steady, my boy. She ain’t gonna hurt you a mite. Only . . . I don’t see how names could be that long, even in a Bible country like Assyria.”
“The names really have several words in them,” said Paul, wanting to run from the mare but not daring to move.
“Like what?”
“Ashur-bani-pal means ‘Ashur creates a son.’”
“And who was Ashur?”
“Ashur was the chief god. He was the war god.”
“And here’s the chief boss, and a war hoss,” said John Brett, “and there’s the name for him. Ashur it is! And you, Paul, how’d you come to know all this rigmarole about Assyria, and what not?”
II
The answers that young Torridon had made to the questions of John Brett had been attended by the rest of the clan with a most hushed interest, but to no answer did they give stricter heed than to the present one, when Paul said simply: “I’ve been sick a great deal, you know. And I had nothing to do but lie in bed and read.”
“Well,” said John Brett, “then I think I’ll put some of the other children to bed for a while.”
This brought a laugh, and in the laughter Paul was able to slip away. But he was vastly pleased. Never before had he been looked on with respect by the others. Certainly he never had been such a center of attention.
This was not the end of the incident; it was the beginning of a new phase in the life of Paul. From that moment he was someone in the community of the Bretts. Even old Aunt Ellen, regarding him with her over-bright eyes, said afterward: “He’s got a brain behind those eyes of his.”
He repeated that saying over and over again to himself for days and days afterward. He had a brain. The others had their great, strong bodies, their great, strong hands; he had a brain. The first spark of pride fell on his soul, and the fire was beginning to burn.
It burned exceedingly small, however, at first. There was need of much tinder of the most delicate sort to feed the flame, and only gradually he came to realize that his position in the household was altered. He had to do the same things as before. But there was a touch of respect on all hands. The Bretts valued in man little other than force of hand and courage of heart, but Paul Torridon they began to accept as an oddity with a sort of strength as great as his weakness.