“I’m not eating it, it’s already dirty!” Henry Thompson decided to stick to his principles, though the main reason was that the ground was truly filthy.

Seeing that Henry Thompson actually minded the dirt, the middle-aged man’s face darkened. He was a martial man, not used to such fussiness. Forget about roast chicken dropped on the ground—when starving during battles, he’d eat cornbread that had fallen into bloody water without hesitation. And he was stubborn, too: the more Henry Thompson refused, the more he wanted to make him eat. So, he did something he thought was clever, but which left Henry Thompson dumbfounded. He opened his mouth wide and gnawed off all the dirty parts of the roast chicken, then handed it back, saying, “Here, now it’s not dirty!”

Looking at the battered roast chicken in front of him, Henry Thompson felt like crying but had no tears. The dirty parts were indeed gone, but now it was covered in the middle-aged man’s saliva. In comparison, it was even worse than before. He wasn’t a clean freak, but he really couldn’t stomach someone else’s saliva. What if the guy had hepatitis B or something? But if he refused again, he worried the man might lose his temper.

To eat, or not to eat? That was truly a difficult question.

Chapter 3: The Tenant Delivering Grain

Henry Thompson stared at the saliva-soaked roast chicken in front of him, torn and unable to take a bite. The middle-aged man grew impatient and said, “What now? I already ate the dirty parts. Is there still a problem?”

“There’s… there’s saliva.” Henry Thompson considered himself an honest and good kid, so he decided to tell the truth.

As expected, the middle-aged man’s face darkened even more upon hearing this, and he seemed on the verge of exploding. Henry Thompson grew worried, glancing around for a brick or something to defend himself.

But to his surprise, although the man looked like a ruffian, he actually had decent self-control. At least he didn’t hit him. Instead, he suddenly opened his mouth wide and, with a series of crunches, devoured the entire roast chicken, bones and all, then shouted angrily, “I’ve long heard you’re a bookworm, but I didn’t expect you to have so many annoying quirks! Back in the day, when I, Ma, and your father ate from the same pot on the battlefield, he never minded my saliva!”

After his outburst, the middle-aged man returned to his seat to continue fishing, still fuming. It was probably the first time in his life he’d been so despised. Henry Thompson was startled by his words, because the man had spoken in the tone of an elder scolding a junior. From his words, it was clear he’d recognized Henry Thompson’s identity and had even been comrades-in-arms with James Thompson. But after thinking for a long time, Henry Thompson could recall plenty of people surnamed Qin, Cheng, or Li, but none surnamed Ma!

Having been scolded for nothing, Henry Thompson couldn’t talk back. Normally, he’d be too embarrassed to stay here any longer, but now his hunger was more pressing, so he shamelessly kept his eyes on the fishing float, silently praying for a fish to bite so he could leave sooner. But maybe his luck was bad, or maybe the bait was too crude—he sat there for quite a while without a single bite.

The middle-aged man beside him watched Henry Thompson still sitting patiently by the fishing pole, but his face showed disappointment. In fact, he had recognized Henry Thompson’s identity from the start. Though he and James Thompson were only acquaintances, he couldn’t just watch his friend’s son go hungry. Even if James Thompson claimed not to acknowledge this son, blood was still thicker than water.

That’s why he’d deliberately tossed over a roast chicken to test Henry Thompson. At first, Henry Thompson’s display of backbone impressed him—worthy of being James Thompson’s son. But then Henry Thompson’s later behavior left him disappointed: a grown man acting as fussy as a woman, lacking any manly boldness. This wasn’t how a general’s son should behave—probably the result of too much book learning. He also noticed Henry Thompson had put so many hooks on the fishing line, which seemed childish and laughable; only a bookworm would come up with such an idea.

But just as the middle-aged man was thinking this, suddenly Henry Thompson jerked his rod, the fishing line went taut, and a big grass carp was pulled from the water, weighing at least seven or eight jin. Henry Thompson was overjoyed—finally, he could have a full meal!

He quickly put the lively grass carp into his bamboo basket, packed up his fishing rod, and got ready to go home and cook. Before leaving, he politely bowed to the middle-aged man, said nothing more, and turned to leave.

“Didn’t expect the kid to have such dumb luck—he actually caught a fish like that?” Watching Henry Thompson walk away, the middle-aged man stroked his chin in surprise, but it was only a brief surprise; he didn’t give Henry Thompson any further thought.

Henry Thompson carried the fish home in high spirits, but just as he was about to arrive, he suddenly saw someone waiting at his door. As he got closer, he realized it was a man in his forties or fifties, dressed in a coarse, patchwork short jacket. His dark face was full of wrinkles, and his hands and feet were especially large and rough—clearly an honest, hard-working farmer.