"Gran'pa!" I implored. "For heaven's sake. . . ."
"Go—when I tell you!" he screamed, emerging into the open. "I will not return to that house!"
"But . . . you can't stay here. . . ." I began, again.
"Who's going to stop me?"
"You're wet through. Do remember your age, and be reasonable. This is absurd! . . . I don't understand. . . ."
"Oh! Go to blazes! I've had enough of your insults and bickerings. I shall stay here until the morning. Then I shall leave this benighted house and country and return to the States! Do you understand that?"
He returned to his shelter, thrust his weapon of attack back into the fire again, and took up an alert and threatening attitude, showing not the remotest sign of a compromise.
"Very well!" I said.
I went indoors again, flabbergasted at this tremendous burst of passionate resentment and childish obstinacy.
I thought of obtaining the help of a doctor, or a neighbor, or the police; but to tell the truth I was afraid that if Gran'pa were removed from his dugout by force he might lose his mental balance altogether and become a raving maniac.