Mrs. Chase interposed: “Don’t you talk to your father so, Wint. Don’t you do it. He knows best what’s good for you, and for Hardiston, and for everybody. You know he--” “Is whisky good for Ote Runns?” Wint demanded. “Well, I guess it doesn’t do him any hurt. It’s not as if he had a wife and children, Wint, you know. You ought to do what your father says. He--” Wint faced the older man. “Well,” he asked, “what is it you say I should do, dad? In plain language. Just what do you claim I ought to do?” “Refuse to let Amos Caretall make you his tool,” Chase said steadily. “Let Hardiston wallow in booze?” “That’s beside the point. Amos is the point.” Wint got up swiftly. “Amos is not the point,” he said. “Hardiston’s the point. Hardiston’s the point, and I’m the point, too. If whisky is good for Hardiston, the town ought to have it. If lawbreaking is good for Hardiston, the lawbreaking ought to be permitted to go on. But if it’s right and decent to keep the law, then I’m right. And if it’s right to leave booze alone, then I’m right. And if I think what I’m doing is right, I ought to go on with it; and if I think it’s wrong, I ought to drop it. Amos has nothing to do with it. Anyway, a bad man doing good things is a good man. If Amos were doing this, the fact that he’s a crook wouldn’t make it crooked. The whole thing works the other way. If Amos is doing this, and it’s a good thing to do, then so far as this is concerned, Amos is a good man.” He flung up his hand. “I don’t mean to hurt you, dad. I think you’re wrong on this. I can’t believe you want me to back down.” Chase had his share of stubbornness, of the pride which had been a pitfall before Wint’s feet. He was too stubborn to admit himself in the wrong. He said swiftly: “I do want you to back down. Call off Radabaugh. Tell Amos he can’t make a monkey out of you. Can’t get you to pull his chestnuts out of the fire.... Stand on your own feet. That’s what I advise you to do, Wint.” Wint looked his father in the eye for a moment; then he shook his head as though to brush away a veil. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I mean to fight it out on this line. Stick to it.” Chase said nothing. Mrs. Chase, silenced by the tension in the atmosphere, looked from father to son with wide eyes, and she was trembling. After a little, Wint asked gently: “Does this mean--a break, father? Does it mean for me to get out of here?” Chase got to his feet in swift protest. “No, no, Wint, not that.” For a moment, he had an overpowering impulse to open his heart, promise Wint his support, offer the boy his hand. But he could not bring himself to do it. The stubborn, prideful streak was strong in him. He fought down the impulse, said simply: “We can disagree without fighting, I guess. That’s all.” “You mean we’re on opposite sides of the fence in this, dad? You really mean that?” “Yes.” Wint’s voice was wistful. “I--counted on you.”