"But what has that got to do with my dad?"
"Aw, come off—as if ye did n't know! It all depends whether he's nailed him or not."
"'Nailed him'!"
"Sure. If he nails him fur a friend, he gits customers an' picnics an' boo-kays all the time. If he don't—" Bob made a wry face and an expressive gesture.
The frown that had been gathering on Jim's brow fled.
"Ho!" he laughed. "Don't you worry. Dad always nails folks—never misses hittin' 'em on the head, either," he added, in reckless triumph, confident that there was nothing "dad" could not do.
The boy on the grass sat up and stared; then he lay back and gave a hoarse laugh—a long, chuckling laugh that brought the frown back to Jim's face.
"Well, what you laughin' at?" demanded Jim sharply.
"Oh, gee, gee!—that's too good!" gurgled the boy on the grass, rolling from side to side. "The saint, the sample, the pattern, the feller what treats 'em square, a-sellin' his vote! Oh, gee, gee!"
The ground suddenly shook with the impact of two sturdy little feet, and Bob found his throat in the grasp of two strong little hands.