Trailin! | Page 9

son to the chair he had been
occupying. Anthony hesitated, but then, like one who obeys first and
thinks afterward, seated himself as directed.
"Mighty comfortable, sir."
The big man stood with his hands clasped behind him, peering down
under shaggy, iron-grey brows.
"I thought it would be. I designed it myself for you and I had a pretty
bad time getting it made."
He stepped to one side.
"Hits you pretty well under the knees, doesn't it? Yes, it's deeper than
most."

"A perfect fit, father, and mighty thoughtful of you."
"H-m," rumbled John Woodbury, and looked about like one who has
forgotten something. "What about a glass of Scotch?"
"Nothing, thank you--I--in fact I'm not very strong for the stuff."
The rough brows rose a trifle and fell.
"No? But isn't it usual? Better have a go."
Once more there was that slight touch of hesitancy, as if the son were
not quite sure of the father and wished to make every concession.
"Certainly, if it'll make you easier."
There was an instant softening of the hard lines of the elder
Woodbury's face, as though some favour of import had been done him.
He touched a bell-cord and lowered himself with a little grunt of
relaxation into a chair. The chair was stoutly built, but it groaned a little
under the weight of the mighty frame it received. He leaned back and in
his face was a light which came not altogether from the comfortable
glow of the fire.
And when the servant appeared the big man ordered: "Scotch and
seltzer and one glass with a pitcher of ice."
"Aren't you taking anything, sir?" asked Anthony.
"Who, me? Yes, yes, of course. Why, let me see--bring me a pitcher of
beer." He added as the servant disappeared: "Never could get a taste for
Scotch, and rye doesn't seem to be--er--good form. Eh, Anthony?"
"Nonsense," frowned the son, "haven't you a right to be comfortable in
your own house?"
"Come, come!" rumbled John Woodbury. "A young fellow in your
position can't have a boor for a father, eh?"

It was apparently an old argument between them, for Anthony stared
gloomily at the fire, making no attempt to reply; and he glanced up in
relief when the servant entered with the liquor. John Woodbury,
however, returned to the charge as soon as they were left alone again,
saying: "As a matter of fact, I'm about to set you up in an establishment
of your own in New York." He made a vastly inclusive gesture.
"Everything done up brown--old house--high-class interior decorator,
to get you started with a splash."
"Are you tired of Long Island?"
"I'm not going to the city, but you will."
"And my work?"
"A gentleman of the class you'll be in can't callous his hands with work.
I spent my life making money; you can use your life throwing it
away--like a gentleman. But"--he reached out at this point and smashed
a burly fist into a palm hardly less hard--"but I'll be damned, Anthony,
if I'll let you stay here in Long Island wasting your time riding the
wildest horses you can get and practising with an infernal revolver.
What the devil do you mean by it?"
"I don't know," said the other, musing. "Of course the days of revolvers
are past, but I love the feel of the butt against my palm--I love the kick
of the barrel tossing up--I love the balance; and when I have a
six-shooter in my hand, sir, I feel as if I had six lives. Odd, isn't it?" He
grew excited as he talked, his eyes gleaming with dancing points of fire.
"And I'll tell you this, sir: I'd rather be out in the country where men
still wear guns, where the sky isn't stained with filthy coal smoke,
where there's an horizon wide enough to breathe in, where there's
man-talk instead of this damned chatter over tea-cups--"
"Stop!" cried John Woodbury, and leaned forward, "no matter what
fool ideas you get into your head--you're going to be a gentleman!"
The swaying forward of that mighty body, the outward thrust of the
jaws, the ring of the voice, was like the crashing of an ax when

armoured men meet in battle. The flicker in the eyes of Anthony was
the rapier which swerves from the ax and then leaps at the heart. For a
critical second their glances crossed and then the habit of obedience
conquered.
"I suppose you know, sir."
The father stared gloomily at the floor.
"You're sort of mad, Anthony?"
Perhaps there was nothing more typical of Anthony than that he never
frowned, no matter how angered he might be. Now the cold light
passed from his eyes. He rose and passed behind the chair of the elder
man, dropping