At the door: “Go first, Peters—first, man, and hurry, but watch those big feet of yours. If you make a noise on the stairs I’m done with you.”
The noiselessness of the descending feet was safe enough, but not so safe was the chuckling of Peters for, though he fought against the threatening explosion, it rumbled like the roll of approaching thunder. In the hall below, Anthony opened and slammed the door.
“Good-evening, Mr. Anthony,” said Peters loudly, too loudly.
“Evening, Peters. Where’s father?”
“In the library, sir. Shall I take your coat?”
“I’ll carry it up to my room when I go. That’s all.”
He opened the door to the library and entered with a hope that his father would not be facing him, but he found that John Woodbury was not even reading. He sat by the big fire-place smoking a pipe which he now removed slowly from his teeth.
“Hello, Anthony.”
“Good-evening, sir.”
He rose to shake hands with his son: they might have been friends meeting after a separation so long that they were compelled to be formal, and as Anthony turned to lay down his hat and coat he knew that the keen grey eyes studied him carefully from head to foot.
“Take this chair.”
“Why, sir, wouldn’t dream of disturbing you.”
“Not a bit. I want you to try it; just a trifle too narrow for me.”
John Woodbury rose and gestured his 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 a hand upon those massive shoulders.
“Angry with myself, sir, that I should so nearly fall out with the finest father that walks the earth.”
The eyes of the grey man half closed and a semblance of a smile touched those stiff, stern lips; one of the great work-broken hands went up and rested on the fingers of his son.
“And there’ll be no more of this infernal Western nonsense that you’re always reverting to? No more of this horse-and-gun-and-hell-bent-away stuff?”
“I suppose not,” said Anthony heavily.
“Well, Anthony, sit down and tell me about tonight.”
The son obeyed, and finally said, with difficulty: “I didn’t go to the Morrison supper.”
A sudden cloud of white rose from the bowl of Woodbury’s pipe.
“But I thought—”
“That it was a big event? It was—a fine thing for me to get a bid to; but I went to the Wild West show instead. Sir, I know it was childish, but—I couldn’t help it! I saw the posters; I thought of the horse-breaking, the guns, the swing and snap and dash of galloping men, the taint of sweating horses—and by God, sir, I _couldn’t_