Tut, tut, tut! Well, I
declare! Now what do you suppose put him up to doin' that?"
Winslow sat down in his low chair again and picked up the wooden
sailor and the paint brush.
"Well, Sam," he said, slowly, "Leander's a pretty good boy."
"Yes, I suppose he is, but he's Phin Babbitt's son."
"I know, but don't it seem to you as if some sorts of fathers was
like birthmarks and bow legs; they come early in life and a feller
ain't to blame for havin' 'em? Sam, you ain't sorry the boy's
volunteered, are you?"
"Sorry! I should say not! For one thing his doin' it makes my job
on the Exemption Board a mighty sight easier. There won't be any
row there with Phineas now."
"No-o, I thought 'twould help that. But that wan't the whole
reason, Sam."
"Reason for what? What do you mean?"
"I mean that wan't my whole reason for tellin' Leander he'd better
volunteer, better go up to Boston and enlist, same as he did. That
was part, but 'twan't all."
Captain Sam's eyes and mouth opened. He stared at the speaker in
amazement.
"You told him to volunteer?" he repeated. "You told him to go to
Boston and-- YOU did? What on earth?"
Jed's brush moved slowly down the wooden legs of his sailor man.
"Leander and I are pretty good friends," he explained. "I like him
and he--er--hum--I'm afraid that paint's kind of thick.
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