"I could have been decent, though, if I'd wanted to. Other fellows who were born and raised near me were decent enough. They got good jobs and stuck to them, and lived straight; but they made me sick--I looked down on them, and spent my time hanging around saloon corners rushing the can and insulting women--I didn't want to be decent-- not until I met you, and learned to--to," he hesitated, stammering, and the red blood crept up his neck and across his face, "and learned to want your respect."
It wasn't what he had intended saying and the girl knew it. There sprang into her mind a sudden wish to hear Billy Byrne
The Mucker by Edgar Rice Burroughs:
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