“I mean—in December.”
“December? In December!”
“Yes. That’s what I mean.”
John McLaughlin’s long keen face, which changed expression only under great provocation, now surrendered to surprise. He stood still, looking at his son penetratingly a long time. Wully kicked an imaginary clod back and forth in the path. Presently the father said, with more bitterness than Wully had ever heard in his voice,
“It seems we have brought the old country to the new!”
Wully pondered this unexpected deliverance without looking up.
After a little the older man added, sighing,
“I prayed my sons might be men who could wait.”
“A lot he knows about waiting!” thought Wully, half angrily. “Thirteen of us!”
“You tell mother about it, father,” he pleaded, knowing his entreaty useless.