“Dad, I’d love to go to war!”
Bard was rendered speechless; William smiled sarcastically at his father, and then all, including hired help, stopped eating and stared at Mauney.
“You!” gasped Bard. “Well, what put that in your head?”
William laughed quietly.
“I guess they’d never take him, Dad,” he said.
“What do you know about soldierin’?” Bard demanded. “Why, you’d be a nice-lookin’ outfit. Now look here,” he said in a tone of ominous finality; “you can just get that idea out o’ your head, right away, understand me. You ain’t goin’ to no war, and the sooner you realize it the better for you.”
That night, however, Mauney did not sleep. The germ of unrest had been inoculated into his blood. His glimpse of a solution for his troubles had turned his mind so irrevocably toward the new purpose that he did not even undress, but lay wakeful and undecided. He knew his father’s present attitude well enough, but he did not know what his attitude would be in case he were defied.
When the first breezes of morning moved the cotton curtains of his window, showing grey in the dawning light, Mauney got up and sat by the window, gazing at the indistinct outlines of trees, listening to the stirring birds and the distant call of a rooster. He felt that he was listening to these particular sounds for the last time. As it grew lighter he tip-toed to the attic for an old leather valise, brought it to his room, and packed up his few belongings. Then, when he heard movement in the kitchen, he went down. The woman, busy at the stove, turned and looked at his valise.
“Where are you goin’, Maun?” she asked, a little dubiously.
“To Lockwood.”