that the soul of the realist chieftain was in a delicate condition, enceinte with a new man. He had observed him down on the lawn and marked him with a foreman’s eye, being as yet too much of a novice in intellectual circles to distinguish conversation as an authorized branch of labor. Idleness actually frightened him; he could not behave normally in its presence. He was tired himself now, though he did not admit it, and the sight of the able-bodied man young enough to be his son (here Joe was mistaken; there was only ten years difference in their ages) taking it easy on the summit brought on in him one of those fits of nervousness that another’s inactivity always produced in him. He felt an impulse, not so much to chide Taub, as to do something to get him moving. He knew very well that he ought not to interfere; the man was a stranger to him—“Remember, you are not at home,” Eva had warned him already; “don’t be too familiar; these people don’t know you, Joe.” But the same fatality that made him drop a pot-lid in the kitchen at seven o’clock in the morning when he had promised to be quiet and was moving about on tip-toe overrode him now. “Just a word to the wise,” he said to himself in extenuation. “Come on, Joe, let’sget the lead out of his pants.” “State Police reporting,” he announced in a loud voice, coming up from behind Taub and shouldering his shotgun playfully. “Work or the guardhouse!”
Taub swung around with a start; his trembling hands jerked up hastily above his shoulders, as if by their own volition, in a gesture out of Keystone comedy which appeared both ludicrous and utterly natural, as though his whole life had been an apprehensive preparation for this summons. He stared woodenly at Joe, his mouth opening and closing. Joe broke into a laugh. “Gotcha,” he shouted, “brother. Say, boy, what’s wrong with your nerves?” But as Taub’s face began to relax, Joe saw from it what he had done. The sympathy he had ready for all sick and wounded creatures commenced at once to flow. “Oh,” he said impetuously, “I’m sorry.” He put out a hand to touch Taub’s shoulder. But he could not modulate to solicitude without a glissade of buffoonery. “Aw,” he exclaimed, mock-wheedling, kicking a foot in the dirt in imitation of an urchin, “I didn’t really scare ya, did I?” Getting no reply, he grew still more contrite and serious and spoke finally in a natural voice. “Forgive me,” he declared with a sigh. All this time, he was studying Taub’s face eagerly, hunching his neck and pressing his own unshaven face with the rimless glasses forward, like a woman pleading her cause and searching the features of her lover for some token or clue. The reality of this terror was patent enough, but he was concerned to find the reason behind it. Having injured Taub, he had nowish to think ill of him (contrary to general practice), and the idea that Will was naturally fearful could not therefore enter his mind. A thought finally dawned on him. “Shucks,” he exclaimed. “I ought to have known. You’re a radical.” Taub nodded dumbly, accepting this, almost with gratitude, as the most favorable explanation of his conduct. But as soon as it occurred to him that he was after all a radical (the premise of his career recalling itself like the features of a forgotten friend), a righteous anger took possession of him. The trampling hooves of the police horses, the night-sticks flailing about, tear gas, arrest without warrant, torture, tar-and-feathers, all the indignities he might have suffered for his beliefs came vividly before his eyes: for all Joe knew, he had undergone them in person, and Joe’s ignorance now of the real facts of his history allowed him to think quite sincerely that this hypothetical case was his own.
“Ignorance is no excuse!” he yelled suddenly, turning on Joe and advancing a threatening step in his large white shoe. “What are you doing here?” He
Taub swung around with a start; his trembling hands jerked up hastily above his shoulders, as if by their own volition, in a gesture out of Keystone comedy which appeared both ludicrous and utterly natural, as though his whole life had been an apprehensive preparation for this summons. He stared woodenly at Joe, his mouth opening and closing. Joe broke into a laugh. “Gotcha,” he shouted, “brother. Say, boy, what’s wrong with your nerves?” But as Taub’s face began to relax, Joe saw from it what he had done. The sympathy he had ready for all sick and wounded creatures commenced at once to flow. “Oh,” he said impetuously, “I’m sorry.” He put out a hand to touch Taub’s shoulder. But he could not modulate to solicitude without a glissade of buffoonery. “Aw,” he exclaimed, mock-wheedling, kicking a foot in the dirt in imitation of an urchin, “I didn’t really scare ya, did I?” Getting no reply, he grew still more contrite and serious and spoke finally in a natural voice. “Forgive me,” he declared with a sigh. All this time, he was studying Taub’s face eagerly, hunching his neck and pressing his own unshaven face with the rimless glasses forward, like a woman pleading her cause and searching the features of her lover for some token or clue. The reality of this terror was patent enough, but he was concerned to find the reason behind it. Having injured Taub, he had nowish to think ill of him (contrary to general practice), and the idea that Will was naturally fearful could not therefore enter his mind. A thought finally dawned on him. “Shucks,” he exclaimed. “I ought to have known. You’re a radical.” Taub nodded dumbly, accepting this, almost with gratitude, as the most favorable explanation of his conduct. But as soon as it occurred to him that he was after all a radical (the premise of his career recalling itself like the features of a forgotten friend), a righteous anger took possession of him. The trampling hooves of the police horses, the night-sticks flailing about, tear gas, arrest without warrant, torture, tar-and-feathers, all the indignities he might have suffered for his beliefs came vividly before his eyes: for all Joe knew, he had undergone them in person, and Joe’s ignorance now of the real facts of his history allowed him to think quite sincerely that this hypothetical case was his own.
“Ignorance is no excuse!” he yelled suddenly, turning on Joe and advancing a threatening step in his large white shoe. “What are you doing here?” He
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