"Because I propose to ride through them," he said. "I propose showing our friends—how shall I put it so you'll understand?—that I don't care a damn for the whole pack."
"Gad!" murmured Mr. Aiken. "I might have known it. And here I was thinking you'd be quiet and sensible. Are you still going on with that damned paper?"
The red of the wine seemed to please my father. He dipped his fingers in it again and drew them slowly across the back of his left hand.
"Precisely," he said. "I propose to deliver it tonight before I sail. I leave it at Hixon's farm."
"He's dead," said Mr. Aiken.
"Exactly," said my father. "Only his shade will help me. Perhaps it will be enough—who knows?"
"There'll be half a dozen after you before you get through the gate," said Mr. Aiken dubiously. "You can lay to it Lawton will be there before you make a turn."
"That," said my father, "is why I say we're sailing very close to the wind."
"Good God, sir, burn it up," said Mr. Aiken plaintively. "What's it been doing but causing trouble ever since we've got it? Running gear carried away—man wounded from splinters. Hell to pay everywhere. Gad, sir, they're afraid to sleep tonight for fear you'll blow 'em out of bed. What's the use of it all? Damn it, that's what I say, what's the use? And now here you go, risking getting a piece of lead thrown in you, all because of a few names scrawled on a piece of paper. Here it's the first time you've been back. It's a hell of a home-coming—that's what I say. I told you you hadn't ought to have come. Now there's the fire. Why not forget it and burn it up, and then it's over just as neat as neat, and then we're aboard, and after the pearls again. Why, what must the boy be thinking of all this? He must be thinking he's got a hell-cat for a father. That's what he must be thinking."
"That will do," said my father coldly, and he rose slowly from his chair, and stood squarely in front of me.