the hill, but I'd stop at the Gift House and crack a bottle of champagne
on each wheel of the _Yellow Peril,_ in honor of the occasion; that would
make a bottle apiece, for there were four of us along.

It was done, to the delight of the usual Sunday crowd of brides, grooms,
tourists, and kids. A mounted policeman interviewed us, to the further
delight of the crowd, and invited us to call upon a certain judge whom
none of us knew. We did so, and dad was good enough to pay the fine,
which, as I said before, was not much. I've had less fun for more money,
often.

Dad didn't say anything at the time, so I was not looking for the roast
I was getting. It appeared, from his view-point, that I was about as
useless, imbecile, and utterly no-account a son as a man ever had, and if
there was anything good in me it was not visible except under a strong
magnifying-glass.

He said, among other things too painful to mention, that he was getting
old--dad is about fifty-six--and that if I didn't buck up and amount to
something soon, he didn't know what was to become of the business.

Then he delivered the knockout blow that he'd been working up to. He was
going to see what there was in me, he said. He would pay my bills, and, as
a birthday gift, he would present me with a through ticket to Osage, in
Montana--where he owned a ranch called the Bay State--and a stock-saddle,
spurs, chaps, and a hundred dollars. After that I must work out my own
salvation--or the other thing. If I wanted more money inside a year or
two, I would have to work for it just as if I were an orphan without a dad
who writes checks on demand. He said that there was always something to
do on the Bay State Ranch--which is one of dad's places. I could do as I