“Dad!” Ken’s answering shout carried far across the field. His father spent most of his time in distant quarters of the globe, ferreting out the stories that had made him famous. His visits home, brief and infrequent, were always exciting. The Allens enjoyed them as much as Ken himself did, and this year they were all particularly pleased at the thought of having Richard Holt at hand over the holidays.
“We’ll meet you outside the customs office,” Ken called, as his father drew nearer.
Richard Holt nodded, smiling.
“Come on!” Ken said to Sandy, and they turned back through the crowd. “It won’t take him long to clear customs. They know him by now.”
Twenty minutes later Richard Holt came through the barrier to where they were waiting for him. He dropped two bags and his brief case and threw an arm around each of the boys. Then he stood back a pace to look them over.
“Are you two as good as you look?” he demanded, grinning widely.
“We’re even better,” Sandy assured him, scooping up both the bags. “You look O.K. too.”
“You look great, Dad,” Ken said.
“I am. And glad to be home too.”
“This is our first Christmas together in three years.” Ken groped for the brief case, but his eyes never left his father’s face.