"_Better!_" Tom declared, with swelling pride.

Halloran wagged his white head in agreement, an unusual procedure,
inasmuch as he never agreed with Tom on any subject which offered
possible ground for disagreement. "A wonderful girl! And I'll
wager they haven't spoiled her. Even _you_ couldn't spoil 'Bob.'"
He raised his red, belligerent eyes and fixed them upon his old
friend, but there was now a kindly light in them. "You made a real
son of her, didn't you, Tom?"

"Almost. I was mighty disappointed because she was a girl, but--I
don't know as a boy could of turned out much better. Well, Judge,
I got to be moving."

"You are neither grammatical nor precise," snapped Judge Halloran.
"You mean _we_ must be moving." He linked arms with Tom and fell
into step with him; he clung to that rigid arm, moreover, despite
Tom's surly displeasure. Not until a friend stopped them for a
word or two was the distracted parent enabled to escape from that
spidery embrace; then, indeed, he slipped it as a filibustering
schooner slips its moorings, and made off as rapidly and as
unobtrusively as possible.

Judge Halloran stared after the retreating figure, then he showed
his decayed teeth in a smile. "'Bob' is coming home to-day and the
old Mountain Lion is on edge," he explained. "I must warn the boys
to stay away from the station and give him his hour. Poor Tom! He
has held his breath for four years."