One thing
was certain; Bennington's friend, Warrington would lose many hundred
votes in November. For everybody knew which way the Republican
convention would go; there was nobody in sight but Warrington.
Bennington and Mrs. Jack dined at the old home that evening. There was
plenty of gloom and forced gaiety around the board. John pretended
that he was well out of a bad job; he was not a dreamer nor a
socialist, not he; Utopia was not for the iron age. He told stories,
joked and laughed, and smoked frequently. No one but the mother had
the courage to ask if he really meant to tear down the mills. She came
around the table, smoothed his hair as she had done since he was a
boy, and leaned over his chair.
"John?"
"Well, mother mine?"
"Shall you really do it?"
"Do what?"
"Tear it down."
He did not answer at once, and she waited, trembling.
"You would not have me take back my words to the men, would you,
mother?" quietly.
"Your father loved the place."
"And do I not?" a note of strong passion in his voice. "I shall tear
it down, if I live. Do not ask me anything more about it.
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