“I'm not afraid to talk with Dryfoos about it,” he said.
“There is no question of courage,” said the colonel. “It is a question of dignity—of personal dignity.”
“Well, don't let that delay you, papa,” said his daughter, following him to the door, where she found him his hat, and Fulkerson helped him on with his overcoat. “Ah shall be jost wald to know ho' it's toned oat.”
“Won't you let me go up to the house with you?” Fulkerson began. “I needn't go in—”
“I prefer to go alone,” said the colonel. “I wish to turn the points over in my mind, and I am afraid you would find me rather dull company.”
He went out, and Fulkerson returned with Miss Woodburn to the drawing-room, where she said the Leightons were. They, were not there, but she did not seem disappointed.
“Well, Mr. Fulkerson,” she said, “you have got an ahdeal of friendship, sure enough.”
“Me?” said Fulkerson. “Oh, my Lord! Don't you see I couldn't do anything else? And I'm scared half to death, anyway. If the colonel don't bring the old man round, I reckon it's all up with me. But he'll fetch him. And I'm just prostrated with gratitude to you, Miss Woodburn.”
She waved his thanks aside with her fan. “What do you mean by its being all up with you?”
“Why, if the old man sticks to his position, and I stick to March, we've both got to go overboard together. Dryfoos owns the magazine; he can stop it, or he can stop us, which amounts to the same thing, as far as we're concerned.”