"You know, ma'am," Uncle Bill went on solemnly while he cast an eye back up the trail for Burt who had fallen behind, "when a feller's drunk or lonesome he's allus got some of a dream that he dreams of what he'd do if he got rich. Sometimes its a hankerin' to travel, or be State Senator, or have a whole bunch of bananny's hangin' up in the house to onct. I knowed an old feller that died pinin' for a briled lobster with his last breath. Since I read that piece about sobbin' out my gratitude on Sprudell's broad chest it's woke a new ambition in me. Every time I gits about three fingers of 'cyanide' from the Bucket o' Blood under my belt I sees pictures of myself gittin' money enough together to go back to Bartlesville, Indianny, and lick him every day, reg'lar, or jest as often as I kin pay my fine, git washed up, and locate him agin." Uncle Bill added reflectively: "If this deal with Dill goes through without any hitch, I'd ort to be able to start about the first of the month." "When _you_ get through with him," Helen laughed, "I'll review the book he's publishing at his own expense. Here comes Mr. Burt; he looks fagged out." "These plains fellers are never any good on foot," Uncle Bill commented as Burt caught up. "Now," to Burt and Helen, "I'll jest hold this war-horse back while you two go on ahead. Down there's his light." There was eagerness in Burt's voice as he said: "Yes, I'd like to have a look at him before he knows we're here. I'm curious to see how he lives--what he does to pass the time." "I hope as how you won't ketch him in the middle of a wild rannicaboo of wine, women and song," Uncle Bill suggested dryly. "Bachin' in the winter twenty miles from a neighbor is about the most dissipatin' life I know. There must be somethin' goin' on this evenin' or he wouldn't be settin' up after it's dark under the table." "I'm so excited I'm _shaking_." Helen declared. "My teeth are almost chattering. I'm so afraid he'll hear us. That will spoil the surprise." But Bruce had not heard. In complete abandonment to his wretchedness he was still sitting at the table with his head upon his arm. So it was that his father saw him after fifteen years. When he had thought of Bruce it was always as he had seen him that day through the window of the prairie ranch house--his head thrown back in stubborn defiance, his black eyes full of the tears of childish anger and hurt pride, running bare-footed and bare-headed down the dusty road--running, as he realized afterward, out of his life. He had bitterly imagined that his son was prospering somewhere, with a wife and children of his own, too indifferent in his contentment and success to bother with his old Dad; and the picture had hardened his heart.