“I won’t!” roared Jimmie. “You soft-voiced bully! I’m getting to hate every bone in your body. Dad! Dad! Say, can I put my hands down, and I’ll take a chance with his gun. I licked Roddy Slade, and Roddy’s pretty near as big as that Reb is—I can do him, I bet you!”
“Jimmie!” called Dad, his voice steady with a gentle authority. “Do as he says.”
“Dad!”
“Exactly as he says,” ordered Dad.
“Oh, Dad! Let me—”
“Jimmie! Obey orders.”
There was now no doubt as to the authority in Dad’s voice. Jimmie groaned aloud and started at snail-pace toward the sorrel.
“I’d a lot rather charge a gun battery,” he lamented. “Say, Reb, I’m doing this because my grandfather tells me to. And he’s my s’perior officer. Not because you told me to, or because I’m scared of your gun. And say, you! Don’t you go getting the notion Dad’s a-scared of you, either. He isn’t scared of anything. I don’t know why he’s surrendering, but if he’s doing it, it’s all right, somehow.”
Still grumbling, mouthing horribly murderous threats, the boy began to unfasten the bearing rein from bit and saddle bow.
“You’ll pardon my grandson’s heat, sir,” apologized Dad to his captor. “He’s only a youngster, and he hasn’t learned philosophy yet. You see, we—