I was staring at the astonishing horse, the queer wagon, and the whole outfit with more curiosity than manners, I reckon, when she came into the circle, and caught my unmannerly eye.
"Well," she said, her face reddening under the tan, "if you see anything green throw your hat at it! Sellin' gawp-seed, or what is your business ?" "I beg your pardon," "I meant no offense," and even "Excuse me" were things I had never learned to say.

I had learned to fight any one who took offense at me; and if they didn't like my style they could lump it--such was my code of manners, and the code of my class.

To beg pardon was to knuckle under--and it took something more than I was master of in the way of putting on style to ask to be excused, even if the element of back-down were eliminated.

Remember, I had been "educated" on the canal.
So I tried to look her out of countenance, grew red, retreated, and went about some sort of needless work without a word--completely defeated.

I thought she seemed rather to like this; and that evening I went over and offered Mrs.Fewkes some butter and milk, of which I had a plenty.
I was soon on good terms with the Fewkes family.