“So it was you, was it?” demanded Tom Burton shortly, “that set her thoughts upon vanity—­well, I don’t thank you.”

The boy, sitting with every nerve under painful control, felt his breath come quick and deep until his chest heaved, and words leaped to his lips which, with a supreme effort, he bit back.  This whole intolerable fallacy of outgrown and hard-shelled narrow-mindedness was spurring him to outbreak, yet for a moment more he held himself in check.

But to the father the incident of Mary’s offending was closed, his mind was already back with his problem and his next words were a stubborn reiteration:  “Yes, sir, me an’ my boys will fight it out here where we belong.”

Suddenly spots of orange and red swam before Ham’s eyes.  Deep in his being something snapped, and, as a fuse spark reaches and ignites its charge, so something fired the eruption that broke volcanically in each nerve.

He rose suddenly and stood before his father, and his words came with the molten heat of overflowing lava.

“An’ when you’ve fought yourself to death an’ I’ve fought myself to death, an’ we’re both licked, what in hell have we been fightin’ for?”

The passionate question fell with the sudden violence of a bursting bomb, and the father’s jaw stiffened.  For an instant, amazement stood out large-writ in every feature.  Ham had thought much, but, in his home, he had never before voiced a syllable of his fevered restlessness.

“We’re fightin’ for our rights.  We’re fightin’ for what the men that came in the Mayflower fought for,” said Tom Burton gravely.  “Our homes an’ our rightful claim to live by the soil we till.”  Strangely enough, for the moment, the older man’s voice held no excitement.

“That may suit you.”  Now the boy’s vehemence was fully unleashed.  “You may be willin’ to die fightin’ for a couple of cows and a few hundred rocks that you bump your knees on when you try to plow.  As for me, I ain’t!  When I fight, I want it to be a fight that counts, for a reward that’s worth winnin’.”

The bearded face darkened with the hard intolerance of the patriarchal order; an order which brooks no insubordination.  But the lad spoke before the words of discipline found utterance.

“Let me finish, father, before you say anything.  What I’ve got to say is somethin’ that ain’t just come into my mind.  It’s somethin’ that’s kept me awake of nights an’ I’ve got to say it.  I’ve sat here an’ listened, an’ I ain’t put in my oar, but I can’t be muzzled, an’ you might as well hear me out—­because there ain’t power enough in the world to stop me.”

“An’ supposin’—­” Tom Burton spoke brusquely, yet with something more like amusement in his eyes than had previously shown there—­“supposin’ I ain’t inclined to listen to you?”

“Then you’ll just force me to leave you here—­an’ you can’t hardly get on without me.”

“You mean you’d run away?”