“I'm Adolph Valborg, from up by Jefferson. I'm Erik's father.”
“Oh!” He was a monkey-faced little man, and not gentle.
“What you done wit' my son?”
“I don't think I understand you.”
“I t'ink you're going to understand before I get t'rough! Where is he?”
“Why, really——I presume that he's in Minneapolis.”
“You presume!” He looked through her with a contemptuousness such as she could not have imagined. Only an insane contortion of spelling could portray his lyric whine, his mangled consonants. He clamored, “Presume! Dot's a fine word! I don't want no fine words and I don't want no more lies! I want to know what you KNOW!”
“See here, Mr. Valborg, you may stop this bullying right now. I'm not one of your farmwomen. I don't know where your son is, and there's no reason why I should know.” Her defiance ran out in face of his immense flaxen stolidity. He raised his fist, worked up his anger with the gesture, and sneered:
“You dirty city women wit' your fine ways and fine dresses! A father come here trying to save his boy from wickedness, and you call him a bully! By God, I don't have to take nothin' off you nor your husband! I ain't one of your hired men. For one time a woman like you is going to hear de trut' about what you are, and no fine city words to it, needer.”
“Really, Mr. Valborg——”