“No,” said Steve instantly and firmly when Mr. Follet was through, “I cannot do it, Mr. Follet, greatly as it grieves me to refuse you a favour. I feel that whiskey, the knife and the pistol have been Kentucky’s greatest curses, especially among the people of the mountains. I would lay down my life, if necessary, for mountain folks, but I long instead to spend it for them in replacing the pistol and the knife with the book and the pen, and in cultivating among them a thirst for knowledge instead of drink,” said Steve with quiet passion which held Mr. Follet’s unwilling attention. Then he added:
“Understand me, Mr. Follet, I do not attempt to decide for you what is right or wrong, I only know that I cannot do this thing you ask and keep my self-respect. I must live within the laws of my 203 country even if I should feel sometimes that they are unjust, and I can never take even a remote part in the distribution of whiskey in the land I love,” he concluded earnestly.
At this Mr. Follet fairly shouted in a sudden access of rage. He was all the more angry for the moment because in the light of Steve’s clear statement he not only felt that Steve was right, but that he himself was wrong.
“Then leave my house this instant with your contemptible idees about Kentucky’s rights, and don’t dare to stop and speak to my wife or my daughter.”
“It is your house, Mr. Follet; I will do just as you say,” Steve replied.
Mr. Follet reiterated shrilly:
“Go on out of my house then, and don’t you ever come near it again.”
Steve bowed and left, not even stopping to get his travelling bag; in fact he forgot he had one, and only caught up his hat from the porch as he passed out.