"By the way, speaking of revolutions, there's been kind of a one at Newbern; kind of a family revolution. A little one, but plenty of kick in it. They want you to come back and be a good boy. That's really what I came down here to say for them. Will you come back with me?"
Merle drew himself up—injured.
"Go back! Back to what? When my work is here, my heart, my life? I've let you talk because you're my brother. And you're so naïvely honest in your talk about our wonderful country and its idealism and the contemptible defects of a few of us who have the long vision! But I've let you talk, and now I must tell you that I am with this cause to the end. I can't expect your sympathy, or the sympathy of my people back there, but I must go my own way without it, fight my own battle—"
He was interrupted in a tone he did not like.
"Sympathy from the folks back there? Say, what do you mean—sympathy? Did I tell you what this revolution back there was all about? Did I tell you they've shut down on you?"
"You didn't! I still don't get your meaning."
"You cast them off, didn't you?"
"Oh!" A white hand deprecated this. "That's Sharon Whipple talk—his famous brand of horse humour. Surely, you won't say he's too subtle!"
"Well, anyway, you said you couldn't accept anything more from them when you left; you were going to work with your hands, and so forth. You weren't going to take any more of their tainted money."
"I've no doubt dear old Sharon would put it as delicately as that."