CHAPTER XXIV.
FATHER AND SON.
GUY COULD scarcely believe his eyes. His father was the last man on earth he had expected to see in St. Louis—the last one he wanted to meet, if the truth must be told—and he hoped that he was mistaken.
But the approaching gentleman was really Mr. Harris—there could be no doubt about that; for, as far as his personal appearance was concerned, he had not changed in a single particular since Guy last saw him. His face wore the same fierce frown, before which the boy had so often trembled, and which seemed habitual to him, and he carried himself as stiffly as ever. But he came up with some eagerness in his manner, and for once appeared to be glad to see his son.
“Guy!” said he, seizing the boy’s outstretched hand and speaking with more cordiality than he had ever before thrown into his tones when addressing him.
“Father!” replied Guy.
“How do you do?” said Mr. Harris. “When did you arrive here, and where have you been?”
Guy noticed, with some of the old bitterness in his heart, that his father did not say he was glad to meet him, but he was not much surprised at it. He could not recollect that his father had ever exhibited any affection for him. He saved all that for Ned, and Guy was obliged to be contented with the few crumbs that fell to his share in the shape of Christmas presents and a religious book once or twice a year.
“I have just now come from the plains,” replied Guy. “I have been to sea since I saw you last.”
“To sea!” repeated Mr. Harris—“as a common sailor?”