"Howard, you are right, your old English ancestors have never shirked when their country needed them. They fought in the Revolution, they battled with Indians and Mexicans, in the sixties they grappled with their consciences, then later they went after Spain like tigers, and now old Georgia is sending its best blood in hordes against the Hun with a whoop and yell that cannot be mistaken. Even if they do like to moonshine a little they fight for their country and that is the last and best test."
His eyes glittered with a new kind of fire. I knew I had him.
"Have—have you been up the river—I mean where the plant is—where we got the moonshiners that time?" I could see all that grew out of that incident now flashed through his mind at the mention of moonshiners.
"No—but I have inquired several times. The land is raising cotton but the paper mill is not running. I believe they have made no headway with the stumps. All in all, it's not doing very well."
"Thought so," he replied, intensely gratified, "I could feel it," he added, "and what has become of those that were my people?" he asked with effort.
"I haven't had much information for seven or eight years, except this man Ramund turning up. Potter went back to clerking in a bank. His wife has soured on the world in general and taken on acid fat. The old folks died."
"And——?" His pipe was laid aside and he held himself viselike and looked the vital question.
"She is estranged from her sister and living quietly."
"Did you—have you seen her yourself?" he asked coldly.
"Yes, a long time ago, she was still beautiful, making her own living, but, Howard, I believe—I know she is a good woman." I decided I could not tell more then.