The woman, recognizing the private nature of their conversation, left them alone in the room.
The weight of Mauney’s ultimatum lay as heavily on Bard’s face as the noon sun on the yard outside the window. For minutes he sat with his head between his large, knotty hands, staring blankly at the table oil-cloth, Mauney felt a flickering pity for him, presented thus with a flat proposition from which no selfish escape seemed possible. Bard did not speak, nor did his face betray his thoughts. It was the tired face of a man weary with his efforts to coerce life, confronted at last with a problem that lay beyond his personal power.
“Well,” he said, looking up at length like one, who, though unable to command, still hopes to barter. “If you’ll stay on here I’ll will you the farm and give you a quarter interest in the business now.”
“Dad, you don’t understand,” said Mauney, “I want education. I’m sick of farming and don’t intend to stay with it. I want to go to College and, as I told you, I’m going, anyway—”
“All right,” said Bard simply and nodded his head many times. “You may regret this, boy, I think you will. Your first duty is to me. And I—”
The sound of horses’ steps distracted his attention and, turning toward the window, he recognized a well-known stallion being led by a man in a sulky.
“There’s Thompson, now,” he said. “I have to go to the barn. But that’s all I’ve got to say, Maun.” He paused to strike the table with his fist. “Stay with me and I’ll share up. But if you want to pull out, you do it on your own hook. Not a cent from me, sir—not a cent!”
He walked toward the door, but turned to cast a glance at Mauney’s serious face.
“You better think it over,” he said. “It’s a purty big step, sir—a purty big step, I tell yuh.”
As he left to direct Thompson and the stallion to the barn, Mauney buried his face in his arms.