Looking back over the six weeks just behind him, Ford could not remember a single incident--a sentence, even--that had been unpleasant, unless he clung to his belief in Dick's contempt, and that he had since set down to his own super-sensitiveness.
And yet-- "He's got bad eyes," he concluded.

"That's what it is; I never did like eyes the color of polished steel; nickel-plated eyes, I call 'em; all shine and no color.

Still, a man ain't to blame for his eyes." Then Dick overtook him with Buddy trailing, red-eyed, at his heels, and Ford forgot, in the work to be done that day, all about his speculations.

He involved himself in a fruitless argument with Buddy, upon the subject of what a seven-year-old can stand in the way of riding, and yielded finally before the quiver of Buddy's lips.

They were only going over on Long Ridge, anyway, and the day was fine, and Buddy had frequently ridden as far, according to Dick.