A longer interval of silence followed, and at the end of it another query.

“Is that all that’s the matter, Buddy?”

“No—­it isn’t,” hesitantly.  “I’m seventeen other kinds of a fool, too, pappy.”

“Reckon ye couldn’t make out to onload the whole of it on to a pair o’ right old shoulders, could ye, son Tom?” was the gentle invitation.

“I don’t know why I shouldn’t tell you.  I’m foolish about Ardea; been that way ever since she used to wear frocks and I used to run barefoot.  I don’t believe I could stand it to stay here and be her husband’s business partner.”

Caleb was shrouding himself in tobacco smoke and nodding complete intelligence.

“How did you ever come to let her get away from you, son?” he asked.

“That’s a large question—­too big for me to answer, I’m afraid.  I always knew we were meant for each other, and I guess I took too much for granted.  Then Vint Farley came along, and I helped his case by pitching into him every time she gave me a chance.  Naturally, she leaned the other way; and the European business settled it.”

Caleb drew a long breath.  “Reckon it’s everlastin’ly too late now, do ye, Tom?”

The young man’s smile was wintry.

“You said the wedding-day was set, didn’t you?”

“Why, yes; toe be sure.  Leastwise, your mammy talked like it was.  But, lawzee, son! the Gordon stock don’t lie down in the harness.  Ardee thinks a heap o’ you, and if you could jest’ve made out to keep from gettin’ so everlastin’ly tangled with that gal o’ Tike—­” he stopped abruptly, but not quite soon enough, and the word was as the flick of a whip on a wound already made raw by the abrasion of the closed doors.

“So that miserable story has got around to you at last, has it?” said Tom, in fine scorn.  “I did hope they’d spare you and mother.”

“She’s spared yet, so far as I know,” said the father, with a backward nod to indicate the antecedent of the pronoun.  Following which, he said what lay uppermost in his mind.  “I been allowin’ maybe you’d come back this time with your head sot on lettin’ that gal alone, son.”

Thomas Jefferson was on his feet and a hot anger wave was sweeping him back over the years to other times when things used to turn red under the rage blast.  But he got some sort of grip on himself before the words came.

“You’ve believed all you’ve heard, have you?—­condemned me before I could say a word in my own defense?  That’s what they’ve all done.”

“I don’t say that, son.”  Then, with a note of fatherly yearning in his voice:  “I’m waitin’ to hear that word right now, Buddy—­or as much of it as ye can say honestly.”

“You’ll never hear it from me—­never in this world or another.  Now tell me who told you!”

“Why, it’s in mighty near ever’body’s mouth, son!” said Caleb, in mild surprise.  “You certain’y didn’t take any pains to cover it up.”