The big man looked doubtfully at the little, oldish man on the sled. Then he turned away decisively. Uncle Cassius, his kindly, ugly old face all withered and puckered to one side, where a splinter of shell from Fort Fisher had taken away his right eye, was evidently not the kind of man that the big man wanted.
“Where are you going?” he asked Jeffrey sharply.
“Albany Law School,” said Jeffrey promptly.
“Unstrap the trunk, young man. You’re not going. I’ve got something for you right here at home that’ll teach you more than ten law schools. Put both teams into the barn,” the big man commanded loudly.
Jeffrey stood still a moment, as though he would oppose the will of this brusque stranger. But he 50 knew that he would not do so. In that moment something told him that he would not go to law school; would never go there; that his life was about to take a twist away from everything that he had ever intended.
Mrs. Whiting broke the pause, saying simply:
“Come into the house.”
In the broad, low kitchen, while Letitia Bascom poured boiling tea for the two men, Rogers, cup in hand, stood squarely on the hearth and explained himself. The other man, whose name does not matter, sank into a great wooden chair at the side of the fire and seemed to be ready to make good his threat of staying until spring.
“I represent the U. & M. railroad. We are coming up through here in the spring. All these farms have to be given up. We have eminent domain for this whole section,” said Rogers.
“What do you mean?” asked Jeffrey. “The railroad can’t run all over the country.”