Papa Wolf swallowed two or three times. "But inheritance," he said feebly.
"Nobody inherits the drink habit," returned Charley, disdainfully. "You can inherit a weak will but not a habit. Dick drank because he thought he was going to die and he went the pace, thinking like other fool men that he was living life to the full, in that way. By the time he had been cured of his illness, he had the drink appetite. But he's cured of that now."
"How do you know?" asked Papa Wolf, belligerently.
"Because I know," replied Charley, shortly, returning to her chair, while Dick and Elsa stared at her, astonishment and gratitude both struggling in their faces.
"Well, do I want my daughter to marry a man who's been a bum, eh? Do you think I, Karl Wolf—"
"Hold on, Mr. Wolf," interrupted Dick. "I never was a bum. Drink was my failing. I've always, with Charley's help, paid my own way. I have a real business down here now. Elsa loves the desert life and she loves me. I can take care of her and make her happy, I know."
"You know, huh! Yet you remember Elsa's home. All its luxury?"
"Yes, I remember Elsa's home and I remember that Elsa and her mother were high class, unpaid servants in that home."
Papa Wolf jumped to his feet. Ernest laid a hand on his arm.
"Wait now, Papa. You've got the top layer off your chest. Now I'm going to tell you the inside story of what has happened in this desert in the seven or eight months. Light your pipe, Papa. It's going to be a long story."