It did not occur to him to appeal to his son.
"I don't see how you can," answered Henrietta. She was sorry he had heard. She meant to have John tell him gently the next day. "There is only the buggy, and if John goes and I and the children—it's you have made them so anxious to go."
She spoke as though she blamed him.
"But—" Grandfather ignored the meanness of the excuse. "But couldn't we take the wagon?"
"The wagon? To Gettysburg? With the whole country looking on? I guess they'd think John was getting along fine if we went in the wagon." Henrietta was glad to have so foolish a speech to answer as it deserved. "Why, grandfather!"
"Then"—grandfather's brain, which had of late moved more and more slowly, was suddenly quickened—"then let me drive the wagon and you can go in the buggy. I can drive Harry and nobody'll know I belong to you, and—"
"Let you drive round with all them horses and the shooting and everything!" exclaimed Henrietta.
Her husband turned toward her.
"You might drive the buggy and take grandfather, and I could go in the wagon," he said.
"I don't go to Gettysburg without a man on such a day," said Henrietta firmly.