“Good evening, Mr. Wilson.”
“Your dad was pretty rough on you the other day.”
Jimmie remembered that Audrey had said she lived under the same duress, that she, too, might be thrown out of her home—for an even smaller cause. For merely being seen alone with him. He looked at the other man with ironic eyes. “I’m surprised to hear you say so!”
Mr. Wilson did not, of course, appreciate the innuendo. He thought that the younger man merely referred to the argument about war which had split apart so many close ties in the town. “You made quite a ringing speech,” he answered. “Mind if I smoke with you?”
“Not a bit. Have a cigarette?”
“Thanks. No.” Mr. Wilson took from his pocket a cigar in a metal container. He uncapped it, bit the cigar, and struck a match. By its light, bright in the gloomy recess, Jimmie could see that he was trembling. “I mean—” he puffed—“I agree with a lot you said. I’m a practical man, though. I don’t believe you can ever sell your bill of goods to the American people. If I did I’d be on your side of this. Whip Hitler—and then take over the world’s business! Nice project!”
“It isn’t exactly—”
Mr. Wilson waved. “I know. You have a more idealistic notion. It would amount to that practically, though, if it came to be. Which it won’t. And I liked what you said about courage. One thing I admire. That’s the only disadvantage of some of my friends on the America Forever Committee. They’re there because they’re scared. I hate that.”
“It’s a point.” A silence fell. “Jimmie, how’d you get that scar?” The younger man fidgeted. “I didn’t mean to be theatrical.”
“Darned effective, anyway. How’d it happen?”