I took up the check and read every word on it twice—­not because I needed to; I was playing for time to think.  Then I twisted it up in a taper, held it to the blaze in the fireplace, and lighted a cigarette with it.  Dad kept his finger-tips together and watched me without any expression whatsoever in his face.  I took three deliberate puffs, picked up the ticket, and glanced along down its dirty green length.  Dad never moved a muscle, and I remember the clock got to ticking louder than I’d ever heard it in my life before.  I may as well be perfectly honest!  That ticket did not appeal to me a little bit.  I think he expected to see that go up in smoke, also.  But, though I’m pretty much of a fool at times, I believe there are lucid intervals when I recognize certain objects—­such as justice.  I knew that, in the main, dad was right.  I had been leading a rather reckless existence, and I was getting pretty old for such kid foolishness.  He had measured out the dose, and I meant to swallow it without whining—­but it was exceeding bitter to the palate!

“I see the ticket is dated twenty-four hours ahead,” I said as calmly as I knew how, “which gives me time to have Rankin pack a few duds.  I hope the outfit you furnish includes a red silk handkerchief and a Colt’s .44 revolver, and a key to the proper method of slaying acquaintances in the West.  I hate to start in with all white chips.”

“You probably mean a Colt’s .45,” said dad, with a more convincing calmness than I could show.  “It shall be provided.  As to the key, you will no doubt find that on the ground when you arrive.”

“Very well,” I replied, getting up and stretching my arms up as high as I could reach—­which was beastly manners, of course, but a safe vent for my feelings, which cried out for something or somebody to punch.  “You’ve called the turn, and I’ll go.  It may be many moons ere we two meet again—­and when we do, the crime of cracking my own champagne—­for I paid for it, you know—­on my own automobile wheels may not seem the heinous thing it looks now.  See you later, dad.”

I walked out with my head high in the air and my spirits rather low, if the truth must be told.  Dad was generally kind and wise and generous, but he certainly did break out in unexpected places sometimes.  Going to the Bay State Ranch, just at that time, was not a cheerful prospect.  San Francisco and Seattle were just starting a series of ballgames that promised to be rather swift, and I’d got a lot up on the result.  I hated to go just then.  And Montana has the reputation of being rather beastly in early March—­I knew that much.

I caught a car down to the Olympic, hunted up Barney MacTague, and played poker with him till two o’clock that night, and never once mentioned the trip I was contemplating.  Then I went home, routed up my man, and told him what to pack, and went to bed for a few hours; if there was anything pleasant in my surroundings that I failed to think of as I lay there, it must be very trivial indeed.  I even went so far as to regret leaving Ethel Mapleton, whom I cared nothing for.