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even by inference.
    "What did you mean by that?" the old Judge asked with apprehension.
    "Nothing," Jester said. "Except it is natural to wonder about my father's death under the circumstances."
    The Judge tinkled the dinner bell and the sound seemed to gather the tension in the room. "Verily, bring a bottle of that elderberry wine Mr. Malone brought me for my birthday."
    "Right now, today, sir?" she asked, as wine was usually served only at Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners. She took the wineglasses from the sideboard and wiped off the dust with her apron. Noticing the platter of uneaten food, she wondered if a hair or a fly had been cooked in the candied yams or dressing. "Is anything wrong with the dinner?"
    "Oh, it's delicious. I just have a mite of indigestion, I suppose."
    It was true that when Jester talked of the mixing of races his stomach seemed to chum and all appetite had left him. He opened and poured the unaccustomed wine, then drank as soberly as if he had been drinking at a wake. For the break in understanding, in sympathy, is indeed a form of death. The Judge was hurt and grieving. And when hurt has been caused by a loved one, only the loved one can comfort.
    Slowly he put his right hand palm upward on the table toward his grandson, and after a moment Jester placed his own palm on his grandfather's. But the Judge was not satisfied; since words had hurt him, his solace lay in words. He grasped Jester's hand in desperation.
    "Don't you love your old grandfather any more?"
    Jester took his hand away and drank some swallows of wine. "Sure I do, Grandfather, but—"
    And though the Judge waited, Jester did not finish the sentence and the emotion was left qualified in the strained room. The Judge's hand was left extended and the fingers fluttered a little.
    "Son, has it ever occurred to you that I am not a wealthy man any longer? I have suffered many losses and our forebears suffered losses. Jester, I'm worried about your education and your future."
    "Don't worry. I can manage."
    "You've heard the old saw about the best things in life are free. It's both true and false like all generalizations. But this one thing is true: you can get the best education in this country absolutely and entirely free. West Point is free and I could get you an appointment."
    "But I don't want to be an army officer."
    "What do you want to be?"
    Jester was perplexed, uncertain. "I don't know exactly. I like music and I like flying."
    "Well go to West Point and enter the Air Corps. Anything you can get from the Federal Government you ought to take advantage of. God knows the Federal Government has done enough damage to the South."
    "I don't have to decide about the future until I graduate from high school next year."
    "What I was pointing out, Son, is my finances are not what they used to be. But if my plans materialize, then one day you will be a wealthy man." The Judge had often made vague hints from time to time of future wealth. Jester had never paid much attention to these intimations, but now he asked:
    "What plans, Grandfather?"
    "Son, I wonder if you are old enough to understand the strategy." The Judge cleared his throat. "You're young and the dream is big."
    "What is it?"
    "It's a plan to correct damages done and to restore the South."
    "How?"
    "It's the dream of a statesman—not just a cheap political scheme. It's a plan to rectify an immense historical injustice."
    Ice cream had been served and Jester was eating, but the Judge let it melt in his saucer. "I still don't get the drift, sir."
    "Think, Son. In any war between civilized nations what happens to the currency of the country who didn't win? Think of World War I and World War II. What happened to the German mark after the armistice? Did the Germans burn their money? And the Japanese yen? Did the Japanese make bonfires of their currency after their defeat? Did they, Son?"
    "No," Jester said, bewildered by the vehemence of the old man's voice.
    "What happens in any