GREATER THAN PATRIOTISM
Jon kind of laughs and points to another man with a gun who was coming to join the first one.
"Neither of us knows Lucas Mallory," says Jon, polite as a dancing master, instead of fighty, like me, "nor is either of us he. I am Mr. Jonathan Vonner. This is my father, Stephen Vonner. Now, may we pass?"
"Oh!" they says, disappointed, looking close. "Wrong one."
"Where are you going?" asks the first one.
"And where's your other reputed son?"
"You're further than usual from home tonight," says the second one, "in a southerly direction."
"None of your business," says I, still fighty. "I've lived here since seventeen-ten—and my ancestors, I'm not that old myself alone—and I don't think I'll ask anybody when I want to go away from my house a little, north, east, south or west, or prove that my sons are my sons. None of your business."
"Yes, daddy," says Jon, in that polite way, "it is some of their business. These men are
167
