Mr. Ross came back to his plate, breathing heavily, fist, with a knife upright in it, coming down again on the table, his mouth open, to facilitate labored breathing.
"By Heaven! I'll cowhide that boy to his senses! I've never laid hand on him yet, but he ain't too old. I'll get him down to common sense, if I got to break a rod over him."
Handkerchief against trembling lips, Mrs. Ross looked after the vanished form, eyes brimming.
"Harry, you—you're so rough with him."
"I'll be rougher yet before I'm through."
"He's only a—"
"He's rewarding the way you scrimped to pay his expenses for nonsense clubs and societies by asking you to do it another four years. You're getting your thanks now. College! Well, not if the court knows it—"
"He's got talent, Harry; his teacher says he—"
"So'd your father have talent."
"If pa hadn't lost his eye in the Civil War—"