There was a queer ring in the boy’s voice. Johnathan was so totally and completely taken aback he was weak all over. His own son!—in his own house!—openly defying him!—declaring bluntly and boldly that he, the father, was not to have perfect obedience in all things.
“My son, don’t have me call down the curse of God upon you! It will follow you all the days of your life.”
“You don’t have to call down anything, Pa. You’re trying to make me give up the only thing I know how to do and do well. You haven’t any right to do it. I know you haven’t. I feel it. I can write good enough to get published. So I’m going on. I don’t believe you know what’s good for me at all, or you wouldn’t ask it. Instead of helping me in the fog, you’re only making it worse.”
“You miserable, little——”
“I’m going to be twenty-one in just four years more. I’m going to boss my own life then. You can lick me now if you want. But if you do—for just wanting to keep on with the thing I can do best and easiest and like to do—I’ve pretty near made up my mind I’m going to run away—where you can’t find me till I’m twenty-one. And I’m never coming back.”
“God’s curses——”
“I don’t believe God curses any one, Pa. He’s too busy running the stars and suns and—heaven—to care whether I like poetry or you want me to be a business man.”
“And you’d—stand up to your father—like this——?”
“When I don’t think I’ve done any wrong, yes.”
“I’ll thrash you——”