Winslow sat down in his low chair again and picked up the wooden sailor and the paint brush.
"Well, Sam," he said, slowly, "Leander's a pretty good boy."
"Yes, I suppose he is, but he's Phin Babbitt's son."
"I know, but don't it seem to you as if some sorts of fathers was like birthmarks and bow legs; they come early in life and a feller ain't to blame for havin' 'em? Sam, you ain't sorry the boy's volunteered, are you?"
"Sorry! I should say not! For one thing his doin' it makes my job on the Exemption Board a mighty sight easier. There won't be any row there with Phineas now."
"No-o, I thought 'twould help that. But that wan't the whole reason, Sam."
"Reason for what? What do you mean?"
"I mean that wan't my whole reason for tellin' Leander he'd better volunteer, better go up to Boston and enlist, same as he did. That was part, but 'twan't all."
Captain Sam's eyes and mouth opened. He stared at the speaker in amazement.
"You told him to volunteer?" he repeated. "You told him to go to Boston and— YOU did? What on earth?"