“So she associates with such boys as that Allison.”
“He’s a fine lad. His mother was a Tawbee, old Squire Tawbee’s daughter. She was a playmate of mine and lived at Greenwood till it had to be sold, after the squire’s death, to pay the debts.”
“But you don’t know about the father?”
“I said,” replied the squire, rather testily, “that he’s a decent man except for his revolutionary notions. He wants to say ‘amen’ every time Patrick Henry opens his mouth. That, I have no patience with. England has helped us fight our foes. This hullabaloo about no taxation without representation fills the ears of the ignorant. Why, fifty years ago the chronic growlers opposed the establishment of a postal service because the government, without consulting the colonies, charged postage on the letters.”
“It seems, however, that you are providing a living for a man who is a chronic growler and opposed to you.” There was the evident suggestion of a sneer in Mogridge’s voice.
“Well, I suppose I might look at it that way. I took him up when he hadn’t a friend.”
“Pardon me, but I do not see how one might look 11 at it in any other way. A fellow who will do as you say he is doing, is an ingrate.”
The squire frowned, but made no reply, and Henry Mogridge smiled unpleasantly, for he saw that his words were surely poisoning his uncle’s thoughts respecting the Allisons.