“Course you’re not worrying,” was his father’s sour retort. “You’ve got me to fall back on, with a good home and grub and a darned fine business to drop into when I’m dead and gone. Four-fifths of the fellers who served in the army from this town alone are back here now, loafing and living off of their folks, and kicking like a bay steer because the government won’t do something for them. I hope you ain’t going to be one of that kind, Oliver. I hope to God you ain’t.” His son could hardly believe his ears. He was bewildered, hurt. “If you mean, dad, that I am counting on living off of you—of sponging on you—why, put it out of your mind. Nothing like that is going to happen. I did plan to stay a month or two, just for a rest and to be with you for a while—but if you’d rather have me beat it back to Chicago to look for a job, I’ll only hang around a few days.” “I want you to stay here as long as you like, sonny,” cried old Oliver, melting. “I don’t want you ever to go away again. Maybe I sounded as if I did—but—but, I don’t. I’m getting purty old—seventy-four last month—and I guess I’m not good for much longer. Don’t you get it into your head that I don’t want you to stay here in Rumley. Nothing would suit me better than to turn the business over to you right now and let me retire, but I guess it’s not your idea to go into the retail hardware business.” “If you need me, dad, I—I will stay,” said Oliver, swallowing hard. “Oh, I don’t need you yet,” said his father, crusty once more. “I can get along, I guess. I’ve done it for a good many years, and I’m not all in yet, as the feller says. There was a time when I thought of selling out and moving into another state to live, but I’ve given that idea up.” “Still living in dread of what that darned old fraud said the day I was born, eh? Well, the agony will soon be over. A year and a half more, isn’t it? That will end the tale, and I will live happily forever afterward.” Sammy Parr was consulting his vest-pocket note book. “Just one year, six months and twenty-one days,” said he. “Good Lord, Sam! Have _you_ gone off your nut, too?” “Vital statistics, old boy. It’s my business, you know. Come on; I’ve got my car out here. Your father’s Ford died last fall and he’s been an orphan ever since. Grab up some of this junk and I’ll bring the rest. Never mind, Mr. Baxter. We can manage it.” “Drop me at the store,” said old Oliver crossly. Sammy gave young Oliver a significant look. “All right, Mr. Baxter. We’ll wait outside for you. I’ve got nothing but time on my hands to-day, and besides I want to talk to Oliver about a—er—something private.” As the two young men hurried across the platform with the bags and bundles, Sammy found opportunity to say to Oliver: “He’ll be in a good humor in a minute or two. It’s just a habit he’s fallen into since you’ve been away. I guess it’s that infernal gypsy business. He’s as peevish as blazes a good part of the time.”