He saw his brother Phil lying in the hammock beneath the grape arbor.
“Hey, Phil!” he called. “That man’s here again.”
Phil opened his eyes lazily. “What man?” he asked indifferently.
Ronnie squatted down beside him. “The man from the Seaway, of course. I just hope Grandfather gets hopping mad again and gives it to him good. Nobody’s got a right to just come along and tell a person he’s got to sell his land. Nobody!”
Phil closed his eyes again and started the hammock swinging.
“Of course you don’t care one bit, Philip Rorth!” Ronnie continued. “I think Grandfather was right. He said you’re not a real Rorth! ’Cause a real Rorth’s got fighting blood and a love for his land, and most of all he wouldn’t let the village go without a fight.”
Phil opened his left eye and squinted up at his brother. “All the fighting in the world’s not going to save the village, Ronnie, ’cause when the government wants something, it gets it. Period!”
Ronnie turned away in disgust. What could he expect of Phil? His brother had never gotten excited about anything, and he probably never would.
He headed toward the other side of the house, partly because it was shady there, but mostly because he knew the parlor window was open and he might be able to hear what was going on inside.
He passed the woodshed and swung around the corner of the house. Almost immediately he heard Grandfather’s voice. “Why, young fellow, do you know this land’s been in the family close onto a hundred and fifty years? And you come along, and without so much as a how-do-you-do, tell me I got to up and off it? Hah! Well, I’ve got a lawyer, too, to protect my rights!”