He slipped off his horse, and led him toward the porch. But before he
could speak his grandfather hailed him.

"Run in to your supper, bub. The boys are holding it hot for you. Luke
and I were too hungry to wait."

"I can't eat now--not with what's on _my_ mind."

"Oh, bub--bub! Run along with you! There's plenty of time for talk. I'll
be here when you come out. Get something to eat, now! That's a good
boy!"

Somehow he couldn't begin the attack just then. That tone was too
affectionate, too matter-of-fact. And even then his hand seemed to feel
the pressure of the little fingers that had released him at the bridge,
and the choking feeling was still in his throat.

He gave his horse over to the hostler, and went into the house.

The lamp in the old mess-room thrust its beams only a little way into
the gloom. It shone over the table and left the corners dark. The cookee
brought the food from the kitchen, poured the tea, and then wiped his
hands briskly on his canvas apron.

"I want to shake with you, Mr. Harlan!" He put out his hand, so frankly
confident that he was doing the proper thing that the young man grasped
it. "It was done to 'em good and proper. They tried to pull too hot a
kittle out of the bean-hole that time--sure they did! I congratulate
you! I knowed you'd get into politics some day."