he could again regain his speech. “Let’s go into the house and talk it over."
His son, however, frowned, but still did not dare raise any objection. He threw the ax away, kicked fiercely at the pile of wood until it scattered in all directions and then followed his father, muttering in vexation, “A man has to go into a conference just when he has so much to do that he doesn’t know what to leap at first.”
The father, acting as if he did not see his son’s anger, went to the house, opened the door and stooping, entered. The young man followed but he did not need to stoop to enter.
When they had stepped inside, the old man threw his cap on the table behind which he seated himself on the bench near the wall. The young man remained standing near the door, crushing his cap in his hands in sullen indecision.
“Well, come on and sit down, Joseph,” the old man urged in the most agreeable tones he could force from his throat. “You are the master here and it is not fitting that you should stand at the door like some passing vagabond!”
“So there! I’m the master, am I?” said the son in cutting tones, and approaching the table, sat down sprawlingly on the chair. He gazed at his father in a challenging manner as if he wished to frighten him and give himself more courage.
“Master, to be sure!” repeated the old man.
