“Yes, I tell you!” insisted Uncle Bob. “You ought to have done this fifteen years ago.”
“Is that so!” retorted Phœbe’s father, sarcastically. “Well, fifteen years ago I wouldn’t step in your way.”
“I!” Uncle Bob laughed, but not pleasantly. “Old, and fat, and bald.”
“I will not do it,” said Phœbe’s father.
“And I won’t be a dog in the manger!” Uncle Bob struck a hard surface with his fist.
“Bob, please drop it.”
“You’re a nice father!” taunted Uncle Bob. “You’re a peach! Letting me or anyone else come before Phœbe.” (“It is about me,” declared Phœbe. “I’m ‘her,’ after all.”) “My life’s half over, Jim: Hers is just beginning.”
“You’re a blessed old brother,”—and Phœbe could tell that her father felt deeply as he spoke, for his voice shook. “But listen to me, Bob: When we went tramping, as boys, if I got tired you always dragged me along by the hand. And how you always shared everything with me! Well, you’re my old side partner, and I won’t do this thing—I won’t!”
“Jim, I’m a poor pill if I can’t practice what I’m always preaching from the Bench: The child comes first.”
“Listen!” insisted Phœbe’s father, gently. “I had my chance at happiness, Bob, and I made a mess of it. But—I’ve got Phœbe, and you——”