He did not want to look at his mother for counsel. The man’s talk had gone to his head. But, slowly, unwillingly his eyes came to his mother’s, and he saw in hers that steady, steadfast look which told him to wait, wait. He caught the meaning and spoke it brusquely:
“All right. Leave the options here. I’ll see what we’ll do. And I’ll write to you next week.”
No. That would not do. The big man must have his answer at once. He stormed at Jeffrey. He appealed to Mrs. Whiting. He blandished Miss Letitia. He even attacked Uncle Cassius, but that guileless man led him off into such a discussion of cross grafting and reforestation that he was glad to drop him.
In the end, he saw that, having committed himself, he could do no better than leave the matter to Jeffrey, trusting that, with time for thought, the boy could not refuse his offer.
So the two men, having breakfasted and rested their horses, set out on the down trip to Lowville.
Late that night Jeffrey Whiting and his mother came to a decision.
“It is too big for us, Jeff,” she said. “We do not know what it means. Nobody up here can tell us. The man was lying. But we do not know why, or what about.
“There is one man that could tell us. The White Horse Chaplain, do you remember him, Jeffrey?”
“I guess I do. He sent Ruth away from me.”