“So long, Chase.”
“Good-by,” Chase told him quietly. Amos and B. B. went out, and along the hall, and down the stair. Wint and his father were left alone. For a little while they did not speak; then Chase said gently:
“Come home to your mother, Wint.”
Wint asked: “Even—knowing this, what happened last night? You want me in spite of it?”
“In spite of—what I’ve done?”
Chase threw up his hand; he cried: “Damn it, yes. What do we care? Whatever you do....” His voice broke huskily. “You’re always our son!”
Wint could not move for a moment; he was choking. At last he laughed, happily enough; and he touched his father’s shoulder with one hand.
“Wait till I put on my collar,” he said. “I’ll come along.”
Muldoon, as though in his dog mind he understood, began to prance and bark about his master as Wint prepared to leave the Moody hostelry behind him. Wint was as happy as the dog. He knew his friends, now. Knew the loyal ones. And his father, and his mother.... They loved him.