"Yes, b'gad! There's the girl and there's the boy and there's the nigger.
It was Sims' idea your getting on the boat. He's bright as a trap, Jason.
I told you he was."
My father sighed a little sadly.
"He was indeed," he admitted.
My uncle surveyed him with his broadest smile, and his eyes twinkled with a malign amusement, that was not wholly pleasant.
"So here you are, George," he cried in a voice that seemed to shake with excitement. "God help you, but I won't or your son either, no, or the lady."
"Indeed?" inquired my father. "Pray go on, Jason. I had forgotten you were diverting, or is it one of your latest virtues."
A slight crease appeared between my uncle's eyes, and his face became a trifle redder.
"So you still are jovial," he said. "I admire you for it, George. Yes, I admire you, because of course you know what is going to happen to you, George, and to your son also. Perhaps you will wipe away that smirk of yours when a French firing squad backs you against a wall."
My father adjusted the bandage on his arm, and smiled, but his eyes had become bright and glassy.
"So you have quite decided to send me to France, Jason?" he inquired pleasantly. "Of course, I suspected it from the first. I knew you hated me, and naturally my son. I knew you never felt the same after our little falling out, when I found you forging—what am I saying?—reading the letter I sent to Mr. Aiken. Gad! but your face was pasty then, you sly dog—"