Wint said gently: “I’m only sorry I didn’t make you happy a year ago.”
“That’s all right,” his father declared. “You were a headstrong youngster; and I didn’t know how to control you. An unruly colt takes careful handling. I’m not a—tactful man. But I’ll be damned if I can see how you can take this from the man you call your friend.”
Wint smiled slowly, and he said: “That’s three times in two minutes you’ve said ‘damn,’ dad. Cut it out. Don’t get profane in your excitement. Routt’s all right, really. Don’t swear at him.”
“Do you realize that he’s saying you’re drinking as regularly as ever, while you pretend to keep this a dry town?”
“Well, no one will believe him.”
“You can find men to believe anything; and there are plenty in Hardiston that want to believe anything against you.”
“Let them,” said Wint confidently. “There are plenty who will stand back of me.”
“But what are you going to do about it?”
“I’m not going to call names,” Wint told him cheerfully. “I’ll fight it out quietly and decently; and I’ll win. That’s what I mean to do.”