“Yes, but that wasn’t the reason I was nasty,” interrupted Tom. “I said, that night in recreation room, that maybe I’d tell you about it some time, and I guess I’d like to do it now. I feel sort of melancholy and――and confiding. Maybe I’ve got a touch of indigestion. Or maybe it’s the effect of the twilight.” “Let’s light up and forget it,” offered Clif cheerfully. “No, I want to talk. Listen, Clif. The real reason I was nasty that time was because I was――was――heck, I don’t know just how to put it. Guess I was sort of jealous.” “Jealous!” echoed Clif. “Well, envious then. I could see what corking pals you and your dad were, and what a lot you thought of each other and how you were both kind of choked up about saying good-by, and it made me feel like the dickens. You see, I never had any father, Clif.” “Never had――” gasped Clif. “None that I can remember,” said Tom gloomily. “He――went away when I was five years old.” “Oh,” murmured Clif. “I wondered. You never spoke of him, although you did tell me that your mother was dead and that you had a guardian.” “Mother died when I was about ten. From what I can make out we’re a queer lot, us Kembles. As far as I know I haven’t a relation living, and about all I’ve learned of the family is what old Winslow has told me; and he’s not much of a talker. He’s a lawyer; one of the sort who hates to say anything unless you pay ’im a fee first. But I do know that my mother was born in this country and my father in England. He met her over here and they were married. He had something to do with cotton; represented an English firm and traveled around for them. Mother traveled with him. I was born in Mobile, Alabama. Then, five years later, my dad up and beat it. Of course I don’t know the rights of it, Clif. Mother never spoke of him more than a couple of times that I can remember, and Winslow didn’t know him. I suppose he was a rotter. Still――” Tom relapsed into silence. Then, after a moment or two he went on. “I was pretty fond of my mother, Clif, although I was only a kid when she died, but when I look back and remember things it seems to me that perhaps it wasn’t all his fault; my father’s I mean. A fellow hates like the dickens to say anything against his mother, and――well, I’m not going to. She was always a corker to me. But what I mean is――well, father might have found her trying. Heck, I don’t know! I ought to hate him, and sometimes I do, but maybe he had some excuse for lighting out.” “He never came back?” asked Clif.