“Oh, I know,” said the tired, but by no means exhausted, Mrs. Tuck, “I ain’t forgettin’ their innards, ef thet’s what you’re thinkin’ of.  You just tell Silas to kill four broilers, an’ I’ll clean ’em to-night.  Thet’ll give me a start, and to-morow I c’n do a few dozen pies.  I hev got some mince-meat, thank goodness! an’ you c’n get me in some of them early apples in the morning.  Seems like I’m not going to sleep a wink for thinkin’.”

Lewis and Leighton did not motor from New York to the Homestead Farm, as ten years later they might have done.  Motors, while common, were still in that stage of development which made them a frequent source of revenue to the farmer with a stout team of horses.  Consequently it was by train that they arrived at Leighton’s home station—­a station that had grown out of all recognition since last he had seen it.

However, he himself had not grown out of recognition.  A lank figure of a man, red-cheeked, white-bearded, slouch-hatted, and in his shirt-sleeves, stepped forward and held out a horny hand.

“Well, Glen, how be ye?  Sure am glad to see ye back.”

“Me, too,” said Leighton, grinning and flushing with pleasure.  “Come here, Lew.  Shake hands with Mr. Tuck.”

“Well, I swan!” chuckled William as he crushed Lewis’s knuckles.  “Guess you don’t recollec’ ridin’ on my knee, young feller?”

“No, I don’t,” said Lewis, and smiled into the old man’s moist blue eyes.

“And who he this?” asked William, turning toward Nelton.

“That?  Oh, that’s Nelton,” said Lewis.

“Glad to meet ye, Mr. Nelton.  Put it thar!” said William, holding out a vast hand.

For an instant Nelton paused, then, with set teeth and the air of one who comes to grips with an electric battery, he laid his fingers in Mr. Tuck’s grasp.  “Huh!” remarked William, “ye ain’t got much grip.  Wait tell we’ve stuffed ye with buttermilk ‘n’ pies ‘n’ victuals ‘n’ things.”

Nelton said not a word, but cast an agonized look at Leighton, who came to his aid.

“Now, William, what have you brought down?”

“Well, Glen, there’s me an’ the kerryall for the folks, an’ Silas here with the spring-wagon for the trunks.”

“Good,” said Leighton.  “Here, Silas, take these checks and look after Mr. Nelton.  Lew and I will go in the carryall.”

“Fancy your governor a-pullin’ of my leg!” murmured Nelton, presumably to Lewis, but apparently to space.  “Why don’t ’e tell this old josser as I’m a menial, and be done with it.”

Old William started, stared at Nelton, then at Leighton.  He walked off toward the carryall, scratching his head.

“What is it?” he asked Lewis, in a loud whisper.

“That’s dad’s valet,” said Lewis, grinning.

“Valley, is it?” said William, glancing over one shoulder.  “Nice, lush bit o’ green, to look at him.  What does he do?”

“Looks after dad.  Waits on him, helps him dress, and packs his bags for him.”