“I wish you would sometimes take me with you as you used to,” said the boy curiously. “I'm bigger now, and wouldn't be in your way.”
Steptoe looked at the boy with a choking sense of satisfaction and pride. But he said, “No;” and then suddenly with simulated humor, “Don't you be taken in by any letters from ME, such as you and Van Loo used to write. You hear?”
The boy laughed.
“And,” continued Steptoe, “if anybody says I sent for you, don't you believe them.”
“No,” said the boy, smiling.
“And don't you even believe I'm dead till you see me so. You understand. By the way, Father Pedro has some money of mine kept for you. Now hurry back to school and say you met me, but that I was in a great hurry. I reckon I may have been rather rough to the priests.”
They had reached the lower road again, and Steptoe silently unhitched his horse. “Good-by,” he said, as he laid his hand on the boy's arm.
“Good-by, dad.”
He mounted his horse slowly. “Well,” he said smilingly, looking down the road, “you ain't got anything more to say to me, have you?”
“No, dad.”