"I congratulate you, Mr. Britton; I congratulate you both. If ever there were two who ought to be father and son, you are the two."
Mr. Underwood wrung Darrell's hand. "I congratulate you, boy, and I'm mighty glad to find you're not a stranger to us, after all."
Then, grasping his old-time partner's hand, he added: "Jack, you old fraud! You've always got the best of me on every bargain, but I forgive you this time. I wanted the boy myself, but you seem to have the best title, so there's no use to try to jump your claim."
Lunch was just over as a messenger was announced, and a moment later a telegram was handed to Darrell. As he opened the missive his fingers trembled and Mr. Britton's face grew pale. Darrell hastily read the contents, then met his father's anxious glance with a reassuring smile.
"She is living and in usual health, though my friend says she is much more delicate than when I left."
"We must go to her at once, my boy," said Mr. Britton; "how soon can you leave?"
"In a very few hours, father; when do you wish to start?"
Mr. Britton consulted a time-table. "The east-bound express leaves at ten-thirty to-night; can we make that?"
"Sure!" Darrell responded, with an enthusiasm new to his western friends; "you can't start too soon for me, and there isn't a train that travels fast enough to take me to that little mother of mine, especially with the good news I have for her."