An excerpt from
Caleb My Son
Caleb was late coming home for supper that evening. Had he thought about it he would have remembered how it bothered the family when he was late. But Caleb rarely stopped to think about anything like that. His mind was too full of other, more important matters; he did not have time.
He was a tall boy. At twenty-two, though his face was soft and young—almost boyish, the thick, bulging muscles in his shoulders and back seemed to emanate power. Women who did not know him could not keep their eyes from trailing him down a street; men who did know him never quarreled with Caleb Blake.
This evening especially they knew enough to avoid him. True, he had been reasonably civil to those daring enough to whisper him the news of Joe’s death. But they had moved away immediately; for, the anger, though restrained, had been quite evident. Caleb kicked stones in the road; he flung aside branches of shrubbery; he growled and jerked away from a little boy who caught hold of his pants leg.
