Uncle George nodded. "Well, Fred, it is Dick."
"Then he had best stay. And since you have brought your other relations -- " The Man pressed the buzzer on his desk.
"It's a family affair, Fred," said Uncle George.
"Just so." To the slob who appeared in the desk screen, the Man said, "Go and find Mr. Orville Dabney and Mr. Glenn Dabney, and ask them to be so kind as to join us here." The picture clicked off. The Man looked coolly at his guests without speaking. The silence grew.
At length Dick's two maternal uncles came in, looking grim and wary: tall blond men both, crag-faced, with fierce blue eyes and hairy hands. Orville Dabney, the elder, was known for his habit of tossing men over his head when provoked, and worrying about protocol afterward. Glenn Dabney, who wore a thick curling mustache, was shorter and quieter, but no less dangerous. The lobe of his right ear was missing -- shot off, it was said, in a duel he had fought with a visiting Cornishman in his youth.
The Man greeted them formally, invited them to sit. The little room grew crowded and hot.
The Man opened the humidor on his desk and passed it around. While the men were cutting and lighting their cigars, he put his fingertips together and quietly began to speak.
After a moment, Dick realized that he was rehearsing the whole history of the Jones, Dabney and Logan families, from the Turnover up. He saw hands poised in mid-air and surprised expressions around the room as the same belated realization struck the others; then they were all silent and attentive. It was a matter of family pride to listen to that story, but not only that: as the Man told it, the story itself was fascinating.
One after another, the leading figures of all three families were sketched in -- Jeremy Logan, who had fought the Morganists at Pimple Hill and Big Pocono; Fabrique deForest Dabney, the founder of the line, whom the family slobs still claimed to see on moonlit nights, riding like a demon and dressed in nothing but his famous white beard; Edward R. Jones and his single-handed conquest of Buckhill.
As he listened, although he knew the story by heart, Dick grew aware as never before, not only how proud a record his family had, but how precarious a thing it was.
The first Jones had taken Buckhill away from the former holder by what amounted to a low trick -- disguising himself as a slob to enter the house, and throwing old August Boyle out of his own bedroom window. That was colorful family history now, but if the same thing happened over again today, it would be a crime.
Then there was the third Man of Buckhill, Edward's brother Leonard A. Jones, who had taken over the house when Edward died in a riding accident -- and whom the present Man had had to challenge and kill, in order to get his rights when he returned from Colorado. Power was a delicate thing, the story seemed to say; those who had it must hold it firmly but carefully -- must cherish it, and be wise.
"And Frederick begat Richard, and George begat Cashel," murmured Dick's father. "The rest of the story, I believe, is yours, George."
Silence fell. The eyes of the company turned to look at Uncle George, who straightened, sighed regretfully, and planted both heavy hands on his knees. "Fred, and you men, here's the whole thing in a nutshell. My boy Cashel came to me a little while ago and said, 'Dad, I want your permission to fight a duel with Dick.' Well, I was shocked. I said, 'Why, what's he done?' 'Called me a slob,' he said." Uncle George looked around the room in an open, manly fashion. "Men, I tried to be fair. I said, 'Cashel, what did you do to provoke a statement like that from your cousin?' He looked me in the eye and said, 'Dad, I only wished him good luck in going to Eagles in Colorado.'"
Dick felt hot and cold by turns. He shifted his weight on the window seat until a glance from his father warned him to be still. Diagonally across the room, he was aware of Cashel staring miserably at his own hands.
Uncle George, gathering confidence as he went along, was saying. "I told him, I said, 'A duel isn't a thing you rush into, especially between blood relations,' but I told him, 'We'll go and talk to your Uncle Fred. I know he'll want to do what's fair.'" He leaned back and spread his hands. "So, men, here we fare."
After a long moment, Uncle Orville spoke. "Let's hear the other side of it."
"The offense was given," said Dick's father at once. "We admit that, to save argument."
Orville nodded and sat back.
Uncle Floyd said, "Then there's just three ways about it. Either the one cub withdraws, or the other apologizes, or they fight."
They all chewed on that in silence for a moment. Uncle Orville and Uncle Glenn exchanged glances with each other and with the Man. As if some intelligence had passed among them, Uncle Orville turned and asked, "Will you let your boy challenge, or not?"
Uncle George looked ruffled. "That's not an easy decision to make. If we get an apology, of course -- "
"First things first," said Uncle Orville briskly.
Uncle Floyd put in, "That don't mean we can't discuss it beforehand. The question is, Fred: if our boy withdraws, will yours apologize?"
All eyes turned on the Man expectantly. To Dick's surprise, he said merely, "Ask my son."
Before Dick could speak -- indeed, before he had any idea what to say -- Uncle Floyd burst out, "Wait a minute, Fred. You can't put it up to the boy, he's under age."
"I can, and will," said the Man.
The Jones-Logan men seemed to consult one another with a glance. Uncle George said gravely, "Fred, you don't seem to realize. A duel is a serious matter."
"So is an apology."
There were assenting murmurs from the Dabneys, and, reluctantly, even from Uncle Floyd and Cousin Alec.
"What do you say, George?" Cousin Alec asked.
"I want satisfaction," Uncle George muttered.
Orville leaned forward. "Mean y'll let him challenge?"
"I didn't say that," Uncle George retorted. "I haven't made up my mind." He turned angrily to the Man. "You're not giving me much accommodation, Fred."
The Man did not reply.
"All right, now here's what it comes to," Uncle George said after a moment. He leaned forward to look directly at Dick. "Dick, if we should agree to withdraw, will you apologize?"
Out of the corner of his eye Dick could see his father's attentive face. The Man did not move nor make any sign, but some instinct prompted Dick to suppress the answer that occurred to him.
He said, "I'll have to wait till the time comes to decide that, Uncle George."
There was a stir as the men sat back in their places. "That puts it in your lap, George," said Uncle Orville with a grim smile.
Uncle George was scowling, and his face was dark; a vein swelled over one eye. Uncle Floyd was smiling a sour smile around his cigar; Cousin Alec was gnawing a thumbnail, his yellowish eyes turned up toward Uncle George like a hound's.
In the silence, the chiming of bells came faintly to them up the tower stair. "That will be the banquet call," said Dick's father, opening his watch. He clicked it shut precisely and put it away in his pocket. "Shall we go down, then, and leave this discussion until later?"
Uncle George glanced at his kinsmen briefly. He hesitated, then grunted and rose. "All right with me."
The others got up and moved toward the door. Was that all? Was it really over so quickly?
The disappointed slope of Uncle George's shoulders seemed to say that it was.
Up and down the Big Hall, in a ceaseless hum and shuffle of feet, the guests were taking their places. The orchestra was playing something bland and tuneful, with chimes in it; slobs were everywhere, guiding guests, holding chairs, serving cocktails and wine.
The narrow family table stood at the head of the room, slightly raised; places were laid only on one side, so that no one had his back to the guests. Dick found himself seated next to his father and mother, among the adults. It seemed a long way down from this eminence to his former place at the end of the table, from which Adam and the others were peering worshipfully up at him.