"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