Ben looked at his father in surprise.
“The coming struggle,” repeated he. “Do you actually believe that it will come to that, father?”
Mr. Cooper resumed his seat upon the bench and opened the book once more. It was easy to see that his fears were of the worst, but that he had no desire to impart them to his son.
“All this controversy is a struggle,” he said. “And as time draws on, it will grow more bitter.”
“But,” queried Ben, his face alight with anticipation, “do you think it will end in blows being struck?”
But his father was bent over the book. All he would say was:
“No one can predict the outcome of such a thing.”
Ben waited for a moment, thinking he would speak further; but as he did not, the lad shook the reins and Molly loped gaily up the path and off toward the barn.
In the shadow of the coach house a broad-shouldered youth of seventeen was engaged in cleaning a long, shining rifle. He looked up as Ben dismounted and turned the mare over to a hired man.
“Good morning for a ride,” commented he, as he rubbed industriously at the brass butt of the weapon. “Wanted to go over my traps, or I’d have joined you.”