“Suppose dad died or went mad?”
“We’d sell the mill and have a rare time of it.”
“Oh, you great clown! Sell it for what? Driftwood? And how long would the rare time last?”
“You’re mighty particular to-day. I hate answering questions. Let me alone.”
“I won’t,” I said, viciously. “I want your opinion.”
“Well, it’s that you’re a precious fool!”
“What for?”
“To bother your head with what you can’t answer, when the sun’s shining.”
“I can’t help bothering my head,” I said. “I’ve been bothering it, I think, ever since dad gave old Crackenthorpe that medal last year.”
Jason sat up.