The boy and I looked up. I took the book from the youngster’s hand and passed it up to the intruder.
“The life and adventures of Jesse James,” I said.
My neighbour took the book gingerly, read the title and glanced at the cover, upon which were pictured in vivid colours three desperate-looking gentlemen in black masks, holding up a train.
“And you are reading this—together?” he asked.
“Yes,” said I; “taking turns at it, he a chapter and I a chapter.”
My neighbour shrugged his shoulders and returned the volume, dusting his fingers.
“Don’t you think he would get to this sort of stuff soon enough—without you helping him?”
“He arrived there to-day,” I said; “and I’m there with him.”
There you have it—the great difference of viewpoint: my neighbour looking at it from where he stands and I looking at it from the standpoint of my boy. My neighbour convinced that I was starting my beloved son on the highroad to a criminal career; I calm and confident, and cocksure that I am doing what is best for the boy. And I guess if we were to take the vote of Parenthood on the issue, my side would go down to overwhelming defeat.