"Well, Len Molick and Whitey Wasson had some of our cattle in with theirs."
"They did?"
"Yes, but Pete and I easily cut 'em out. But—Oh, Dad!" The words burst from Dave's lips before he thought. "Am I your son?" he blurted out. "Len and Whitey said I was a picked-up nobody! Am I? Am I not your son?"
He held out his hands appealingly.
A great and sudden change came over Mr. Carson. He seemed to grow older and more sorrowful. A sigh came from him.
Gently he placed one arm over the youth's drooping shoulders.
"Dave," he said gently. "I hoped this secret would never come out—that you would never know. But, since it has, I must tell you the truth. I love you as if you were my own son, but you are not a relative of mine."
The words seemed to cut Dave like a knife.
"Then if I am not your son, who am I?" Dave asked in a husky voice.
The ticking of the clock on the mantle could be plainly, yes, loudly heard, as Mr. Carson slowly answered in a low voice: