“I don’t want to turn you out,” said Gordon. “Can’t you let my game alone? Come, let’s start again; shall we? I’ll send Banks down to-morrow with a couple of cows and a crate or two of chickens, and Murphy shall bring you what seeds you want for late planting—”
“To hell with your seeds!” roared Jocelyn, in a burst of fury. “To hell with your cows and your Murphys and your money and yourself, you loafing millionaire! Do you think I want to dig turnips any more than you do? I was born free in a free land before you were born at all! I hunted these swales and fished these streams while you were squalling for your pap!”
With blazing eyes the ragged fellow shook his fist at Gordon, cursing him fiercely, then with a violent gesture he pointed at the ground under his feet: “Let those whose calling is to dig, dig!” he snarled. “I’ve turned my last sod!”
Except that Gordon’s handsome face had grown a little white under the heavy coat of tan, he betrayed no emotion as he said: “You are welcome to live as you please—under the law. But if you fire one more shot on this land I shall be obliged to ask you to go elsewhere.”
“Keep your ears open, then!” shouted Jocelyn, “for I’ll knock a pillowful of feathers out of the first partridge I run over!”
“Better not,” said Gordon, gravely.
Jocelyn hitched up his weather-stained trousers and drew his leather belt tighter. “I told you just now,” he said, “that I’d never turn another sod. I’ll take that back.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Gordon, pleasantly.
“Yes,” continued Jocelyn, with a grim gesture, “I’ll take it back. You see, I buried my wife yonder, and I guess I’m free to dig up what I planted. And I’ll do it.”
After a pause he added: “Tear the house down. I’m done with it. I guess I can find room somewhere underground for her, and a few inches on top of the ground for me to sit down on.”