But Babbitt was too excited to heed. His little eyes snapped and his bristling beard quivered.
"You hold your horses, Shavin's," he ordered. "I didn't come here to listen to you. I came because I had somethin' to say and when I've said it I'm goin' and goin' quick. My boy's been home. You knew that, I suppose, didn't you?"
Jed nodded. "Yes," he said, "I knew Leander'd come home for Thanksgivin'."
"Oh, you did! He came here to this shop to see you, maybe? Humph! I'll bet he did, the poor fool!"
Again Jed shifted his position. His hands clasped about his knee and his foot lifted from the floor.
"There, there, Phin," he said gently; "after all, he's your only son, you know."
"I know it. But he's a fool just the same."
"Now, Phin! The boy'll be goin' to war pretty soon, you know, and—"
Babbitt sprang to his feet. His chin trembled so that he could scarcely speak.
"Shut up!" he snarled. "Don't let me hear you say that again, Jed Winslow. Who sent him to war? Who filled his head full of rubbish about patriotism, and duty to the country, and all the rest of the rotten Wall Street stuff? Who put my boy up to enlistin', Jed Winslow?"