Twenty, perhaps. If I had my way I'd take every
German in the country and boil 'em in oil. I didn't want Klein
back, but he was a good workman. Well, he's done a good job now."
It was after that that Graham saw his father, a strange, wild-eyed
Clayton who drove his pick with a sort of mad strength, and at the
same time gave orders in an unfamiliar voice. Graham, himself a
disordered figure, watched him for a moment. He was divided between
fear and resolution. Some place in that debacle there lay his own
responsibility. He was still bewildered, but the fact that Anna's
father had done the thing was ominous.
The urge to confession was stronger than his fears. Somehow, during
the night, he had become a man. But now he only felt, that somehow,
during the night, he had become a murderer.
Clayton looked up, and he moved toward him."
"Yes?"
"I've had some coffee made at a house down the street. Won't you
come and have it?"
Clayton straightened. He was very tired, and the yard was full of
volunteers now, each provided at the gate with a pick or shovel.
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