Amos chuckled. “Pete, it beats me how you find out things.”
“I don’t find ’em out,” said Peter. “People tell me.” He rummaged through the tangle at the back of his neck. “Looks like people aim to make mischief, so they tell me things to tell you that’ll start a fight, and the likes of that. That’s the way of it.”
“This won’t start a fight,” said Amos. “I’m home for a rest.”
Peter looked at him intently. “You backing Wint?”
“No.”
“What?”
“Pete,” said Amos thoughtfully, “this was Wint’s idea. He figured it out, the right thing to do. He’s started it. It won’t hurt him a bit to fight it out. I’m going to stand by and yell: ‘Go it, wife; go it, b’ar.’ That’s me in this, Peter.”
“What are you going to tell Kite?”
“Going to tell him just that,” said Amos.
They had finished breakfast and moved into the sitting room and filled their pipes. Agnes came downstairs in her kimono, hair flying, and kissed Amos and pretended to be embarrassed at appearing before Peter in her attractive disarray. Then she went out to her breakfast. The two men smoked without speaking. Amos had looked after his daughter with a certain trouble in his eyes; and Peter saw it. Peter did not like Agnes.