Wint was surprisingly cheerful. The elation of battle was on him. He chuckled at the impatience in his father’s tone; but he did make haste, and a moment later joined the other man in the sitting room. The elder Chase was standing, stirring about, his face hot and angry.
“Look here, Wint,” he exclaimed, without parley. “I hear Amos Caretall turned you down, to-day.”
“Yes.”
“In the Post Office.”
“Yes, this morning.”
“Told Routt he was going to win.”
“Just that, dad.”
Chase threw up his hands furiously. “By God, Wint, I told you he’d cut your throat! The dirty....”
Wint put his hand up to his neck. “Cut my throat?” he repeated. “I seem to be all here.”
“You wouldn’t believe me, Wint. But I warned you.”