"Been out callin', son?" he asked, marking the Tuxedo and the white expanse of shirt front.
"No, I reckon not," was the reply, punctuated by a short laugh. "The Avenue seems to be depopulated."
"So? I hadn't heard of anybody goin' away," said Caleb the literal.
"Nor I," said Tom curtly; and the conversation paused until the iron-master had deliberately refilled and lighted his corn-cob.
"It's a-plenty onprofitable, Buddy, don't you reckon?" he ventured, referring to the social diversion.
There was a picric quality in Tom's tone when he replied: "The calling act?—I have certainly found it so to-night." Then, more humanely: "But as a means of relaxation it beats sitting here in the dark and stewing over to-morrow's furnace run—which is what you've been doing."
Caleb chuckled. "That's one time you missed the whole side o' the barn, Buddy. I was settin' here wonderin' if a man ever did get over bein' surprised at the way his children turn out."
"Meaning me?" said Tom, knocking the ash from his pipe and feeling in his pockets for a cigar.
"Yes, meanin' you, son. You've somehow got away from me again in these last six months 'r so."
"I'm older, pappy; and I hope I'm bigger and broader. I was a good bit of a kid a year ago; tough in some spots and fearfully and wonderfully raw in others. Do you recollect how I climbed up on the fence the first dash out of the box and read off the law to you about religion and such things?"