“Cold, Douglas?” she asked.

The boy nodded.  “Where’s Dad?”

“In the other room.  His tooth still aches, I guess.”

“Is he sore because I’m late?” asked the boy, scowling.

Judith answered with a curious jerking of her breath.  “He tried to kick me.  I hate him!”

Douglas grunted and marched through the inner door into the one other room of the house.  It was at least twenty-five feet square.  The log walls were whitewashed like the kitchen and from one of the huge pine rafters hung a lamp which shed a pleasant light on a center table.  Beds occupied three corners of the room.  There were several comfortable rocking-chairs, a big mahogany bureau and a sewing-machine.  Over the double bed hung an ancient saber and over a low bookcase was a framed sampler.  There were several good old-fashioned engravings and some framed lithographs with numerous books and piles of dilapidated magazines.  Doug’s father stood by the table with a book in his hand.

John Spencer at forty-six was still a superb physical specimen, standing six feet two in his felt slippers.  His face, so like, yet so unlike his son’s, showed heavy lines from the nostril to the corner of the mouth.  Beneath his eyes were faint pouches.  The thick thatch of yellow hair had lost its yellow light and now was drab in tone.  His flannel shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, showed a strong neck, and the rider’s belt that circled the top of his blue denim pants outlined a waist as slim and hard as Doug’s.

He looked up.  “What do you mean by coming in at this hour, you young hound?”

“I think I might have Sunday afternoon to myself,” said Douglas sulkily.

“So do I. But that don’t mean you are to have all Sunday night, too.  Did you feed the calves?”

“Yes.”

“Next Sunday you be here by five o’clock, understand?”

“Yes.”

“Supper’s ready!” called Judith.

The table was covered by a red-checked cloth.  A huge platter of fried beef, another of fried potatoes, another of baking-powder biscuits, and a pot of coffee steamed on the table.  John did not speak until his first hunger had been satisfied.  When he received his second cup of coffee, however, he said, “Well, my tooth’s better.  What happened this afternoon, children?”

Judith did not reply, but Douglas, with a chuckle, told the story of Mr. Fowler’s discomfiture.  John and Mary shouted with laughter.

“By old Sitting Bull, it serves him right!” John wiped his eyes.  “What became of him?”

“O, he beat it for the Pass!” replied Douglas.

“What did you do after that?” inquired Mrs. Spencer.

“We went up to the post-office to get Peter to let us have a dance, but there was nothing doing.  He just gave us all a jaw because our horses were sweating.”

“I’ll bet Swift was the worst off,” chuckled John.

“That’s right!  Pick on me!” cried Judith.