the studio. God forbid! Kenny's the symbol for it all.

"I've had some black minutes of remorse. After all I had no earthly
right to blaze out so about the shotgun. And you can't imagine how the
statuette upset me.

"Say hello to Kenny for me, won't you? Tell him I'm brown and lean
already, and that I like the fortunes of the road."


It hurt of course that the letter was Garry's. Nettled at first, Kenny
had half a mind not to read it. Later, why it was Garry's, gave him a
sense of power. Brian was homesick and repentant. And with the fire
of his temper spent he was always manageable. Kenny cursed the miles
between them.

He read the letter again and the poetry of the open road filled his
veins with the fire of inspiration. Tavern of Stars! Old Gaffer Moon,
full-faced and silver! Tree-walls and Dame Wind a-sweeping! Why, the
lad was a poet--a poet like his father. And the big-hearted kindness
of him, thrashing the runaway into sense. Irish temper there! Kenny
felt a passionate thrill of pride in his offspring. Yes, Brian was
like his father, thank God, even to the Celtic curse of homesickness.

"But to think of him," he marveled in a wave of tenderness, "living in
a corncrib on seven cents a day!"

Again and again he read between the lines, finding sanity and sense,
compassion and humor. The inherited charm of Brian's personality
filled him with intense delight.