The old man stared slack-jawed at his faultlessly correct son. Then his mouth snapped shut very suddenly to choke back a flood of furious rebuke.
Joseph glanced down at his own polished nails; glanced again at the work-laden desk and then remarked:
“I think you said something had ‘upset’ you? That was the term, I think. Can I be of any use?”
“Yes,” snorted Dad. “Yes, you can. I was half-afraid to speak of it before. But I’m not now. Joe, I want to go to this war. I want to enlist.”
“Nonsense, father! You’re too old, for one thing. And besides—”
“Too old? I’m not quite fifty-five. Down South, men of sixty and seventy, and boys as young as Jimmie are already enlisting.”
“I beg, sir,” hastily interposed his son, “you won’t put such crazy notions into James’s head. Even at present he is a great worry to his mother and myself by his incessant longing to become old enough to be a soldier. I do not mean to be harsh, sir, but we have traced that foolish ambition of his directly to his talks with you. And I must earnestly beg of you not to—”
“Good little Jimmie! The fighting spirit skipped a generation when it came to you, Joe. But Jim’s a Fighting Brinton from the top of his red head to the soles of his stubby little feet.”
“I must request, sir, that you put no more foolish notions into—”
“That’s neither here nor there, Joe,” broke in Dad, impatiently. “We can talk about Jimmie another time. I want to go to the front. I want to enlist in this war. And I mean to.”