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?"