Sam Wilkes brought his fist down on the table. The hand-made crockery danced and trembled.
"Then, by Gad! I'll have no more of this talk or no more phoney hospitality. Bessie, Ginger, Papa—come on! We're getting out of here! We've got work to do!"
Pop said slowly, "I'm sorry, Wilkes. But—"
"Sorry! Bah!"
"And just where," cackled Grampaw, loving it, "might y' be goin'?"
"Not far. Right across the river. You can't claim all of this fertile valley—yet! And you haven't cleared that ground."
He stomped to the door; turned there for one, final warning.
"—and I advise you Moseleys to keep off our land, too! We're goin' to be mighty busy provin' our right to own this planet. I understand there's pests around these parts that are darn disturbin'; I'd hate to make a mistake and shoot any skunks by accident. Come on, Mama!"
Bessie Wilkes looked at Mom. Her worn, tired features sagged piteously. She wet her lips. "Mrs. Moseley—"
Mom said, "Rob, don't you think you're being a little harsh, maybe?"