He flung up his hand. “I don’t mean to hurt you, dad. I think you’re wrong on this. I can’t believe you want me to back down.”
Chase had his share of stubbornness, of the pride which had been a pitfall before Wint’s feet. He was too stubborn to admit himself in the wrong. He said swiftly:
“I do want you to back down. Call off Radabaugh. Tell Amos he can’t make a monkey out of you. Can’t get you to pull his chestnuts out of the fire.... Stand on your own feet. That’s what I advise you to do, Wint.”
Wint looked his father in the eye for a moment; then he shook his head as though to brush away a veil. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I mean to fight it out on this line. Stick to it.”
Chase said nothing. Mrs. Chase, silenced by the tension in the atmosphere, looked from father to son with wide eyes, and she was trembling. After a little, Wint asked gently:
“Does this mean—a break, father? Does it mean for me to get out of here?”
Chase got to his feet in swift protest. “No, no, Wint, not that.” For a moment, he had an overpowering impulse to open his heart, promise Wint his support, offer the boy his hand. But he could not bring himself to do it. The stubborn, prideful streak was strong in him. He fought down the impulse, said simply: “We can disagree without fighting, I guess. That’s all.”
“You mean we’re on opposite sides of the fence in this, dad? You really mean that?”
“Yes.”
Wint’s voice was wistful. “I—counted on you.”