"What's happened to ye, anyhow?" asked Grandpa Walker when the greetings were over and a place had been prepared for Pen at the table. "Dick Butler kick ye out; did he?"
"Not exactly," was the reply. "But he told me I couldn't stay there unless I did a certain thing, and I didn't do it—I couldn't do it—and so I came away."
"Jes' so. That's Dick Butler to a T. Ef ye don't give him his own way in everything he aint no furder use for ye. Well, eat your dinner now, an' tell us about it later."
So Pen ate his dinner. He was hungry, and, for the time being at least, the echo of that awful hiss was not ringing in his ears. But they would not let him finish eating until he had told them, in detail, the cause of his coming. He made the story as brief as possible, neither seeking to excuse himself nor to lay the blame on others.
"Well," was Grandpa Walker's comment when the recital was finished, "I dunno but what ye done all right enough. They ain't one o' them blame little scalawags down to Chestnut Valley, but what deserves a good thrashin' on gen'al principles. They yell names at me every time I go down to mill, an' then cut an' run like blazes 'fore I can git at 'em with a hoss-whip. I'm glad somebody's hed the grace to wallop 'em. And es for Dick Butler; he's too allfired pompous an' domineerin' for anybody to live with, anyhow. Lets on he was a great soldier! Humph! I've known him—"
It was Pen's mother who spoke. The old man turned toward her abruptly.
"You ain't got no call," he said, "to stick up for Dick Butler."
"I know," she replied. "But he's Pen's grandfather, and it isn't nice to abuse him in Pen's presence."
"Well, mebbe that's so."