He threw himself into a chair and removed his muddied spurs.
"I never dreamed you'd get back to-night," said Sally.
"I said I would, didn't I?"
Johnson, resting his shoulders against the sitting-room mantel, suddenly bethought himself and went to his room, whence he returned briskly with a bottle of whisky.
"This'll keep the cold out."
"Why, you must be half dead, you poor, dear old Boy Blue!" Sally cried; the name fitted the boss as happily as Fido would a rhinoceros. "Wait, and I'll cook you something."
Something in her manner or her words caused Floyd to lift his head sharply. A slow smile twisted his features. He got up and went into the dining-room to pour some water into his drink. Before he drained it, he looked at his reflection in the glass above the sideboard. His eyes showed tired but well content.
"Come on, Lafe," he said brusquely. "Let's eat."
"You're on," said the cheery Mr. Johnson.
Sally hovered about them, constantly running to the kitchen for hot coffee and toast. Lafe sat back—it being his custom to bring his mouth down to his fork, instead of his fork up to his mouth—and surveyed the scene with much approval. Mrs. Floyd was at that moment pressing her husband to a second plate of scrambled eggs.