"To vote as he thinks he ought to," was his son's reply.
Deacon Swift's eyes were bulging and reddening.
"You—you tell me dat?" His slender form towered above his son's, and his knotted, toil-hardened hands opened and closed.
"You tell me dat? You with yo' bringin' up vote de way you think you're right? You lie! Tell me what dey paid you, or, befo' de Lawd, I'll taih you to pieces right hyeah!"
Tom wavered. He was weaker than his father. He had not gone through the same things, and was not made of the same stuff.
"They—they give me five dollahs," he said; "but it wa'n't fu' votin'."
"Fi' dollahs! fi' dollahs! My son sell hisse'f fu' fi' dollahs! an' forty yeahs ago I brung fifteen hun'erd, an' dat was only my body, but you sell body an' soul fu' fi' dollahs!"
Horror and scorn and grief and anger were in the old man's tone. Tears trickled down his wrinkled face, but there was no weakness in the grip with which he took hold of his son's arms.
"Tek it back to 'em!" he said. "Tek it back to 'em."
"But, pap—"