“I would not expect a vagabond to understand anything or to be brave enough to say what he thinks,” piped the father. He turned on his son. “Here's a scalawag of a tramp. Go along with him and be another such.”
“I may be a peripatetic philosopher, for all you know,” said Farr, teasingly. “There are knights in fustian as well as knights in armor.”
“I think thee is of more account than thy clothing indicates,” stated the son, regarding the stranger keenly. “And thee carries a rose in thy hand. Little things tell much.”
Farr put the flower into his pocket. “Don't fool yourself about me,” he said, roughly.
“Thy speech has betrayed thee,” insisted the other.
“I have met crib-crackers who were college men—and pocket dictionaries are cheap. And so good day to you, gentlemen.”
“Wait one moment!” appealed the man in armor. His face softened when he approached his father.
“We have talked much and there is no more to say to each other now. I have served here patiently many years. If I leave thee for a little while there is old Ben to wait and tend. And I will come back after I have done my duty.”
“I will stay alive so that I can bail thee out of prison,” his father informed him, sourly. “Go on, thou fool; learn thy lesson! The world is all right as it is; it will cuff the ears of meddlers. But go on!”
“I would rather thee would show another spirit at parting—but have it thy way,” returned the son, with Quaker repression of all emotions. He came forth from the gate.