"Let's have it, Dad."
"That's sensible," mumbled Temple. "You always were a smart girl,
Teresa, when you cared to be. Let's see; where had I got? Oh, yes;
speaking of Blenham chipping in with us, as you put it."
"With _you_!" corrected Terry briefly.
"We're mortgaged to old man Packard," continued Temple, somewhat hasty
about it now that he had fairly plunged into the current of what he had
to say, as though the water were cold and he was anxious to clamber out
upon the far side. "Not much in a way; a good deal when you figure on
how tight money is and how little we've seen of it these last few
years. Now, Packard sends Blenham across with a message; he's going to
foreclose; he is going to drive us out; to ruin us. That is Packard's
word."
Terry stiffened in her chair; her chin rose a little in the air; her
eyes brightened; the color in her cheeks deepened. That was her only
answer to Packard's ultimatum as quoted to her father by Blenham and by
Temple to her. Knowing that there was still more to come, she sat
still, her clasped hands tightening about her knees. Blenham, as still
as she, was sipping at his whiskey.
"But Blenham is a white man."
Temple attempted to say it with the force of conviction, but Terry
merely sniffed, and Temple himself failed somewhat to put his heart
into his words. He hurried on, repeating:
"Yes, a white man.
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