“No,” said Wint, without palliation of the finality of the word, and Chase looked—and was surprised.
“You’ve realized it, have you?”
“Yes, sir.”
There was one thing Chase wanted to do; and it made him feel ridiculous and ashamed of himself to want to do it. What he wanted to do was to take Wint in his arms. And both of them grown men! He shook his head, as though to brush this sentimental desire away. Foolishness! The young rip had made a laughingstock out of him. Yet here he was, ready to give in at a word.
He said: “I suppose Amos sent you.”
Wint bit his lips, and his face set faintly; but his voice was quiet enough when he answered. “No, sir,” he said.
“You tell Amos,” Chase exclaimed, “that you can’t pull his chestnuts out of the fire for him. And he’ll be more anxious to get around me later on than he is now. Tell him that for me.”
Wint shook his head slowly. “Amos didn’t send me,” he said again.
“Thought Amos told you everything to do?” his father asked. “Haven’t got a mind of your own, have you?”
“Yes,” Wint told him. “Yes, I think I have.”