"Jeff," said she, "do you think our young people are not—what they were?"
He loved her beautiful indirection.
"I don't want 'em to be what they were," said he, "if they have to lie to do it. I don't know exactly what I do want. Only I'm homesick for old Addington. Amabel, what should you say to my going into kindergarten work?"
"You always did joke me," said she. "Get a rise out of me? Is that what you call it?"
"I'm as sober as an owl," said Jeff. "I want these pesky Poles and Syrians and all the rest of them to learn what they're up against when they come over here to run the government. I'm on the verge, Amabel, of hiring a hall and an interpreter, and teaching 'em something about American history, if there's anything to teach that isn't disgraceful."
"And yet," said she, "when Weedon Moore talks to those same men you go and break up the meeting."
"But bless you, dear old girl," said Jeff, "Weedon was teaching 'em the rules for wearing the red flag. And I'm going to give 'em a straight tip about Old Glory. When I've got through with 'em, you won't know 'em from New Englanders dyed in the wool."
She meditated.
"If only you and Weedon would talk it over," she ventured, "and combine your forces. You're both so clever, Jeff."
"Combine with Weedie? Not on your life. Why, I'm Weedie's antidote. He preaches riot and sedition, and I'm the dose taken as soon as you can get it down."