"Yes--Dad's."
Now it chanced that as Jeff drew the portrait of Bud's father from the case the boy had turned, and so missed the amazing expression of surprise, dismay, horror, that flitted into Jeff's honest face, and for the moment distorted it. But when he spoke his voice was the same, and his features were composed.
"This is your--dad?"
"Yes. I call him a peach." "It's a fine head--sure," murmured Jeff.
Bud bent over him, eager to sing the praises of his sire. But, for the first time since man and boy had met, Jeff's face assumed a hard, professional look. Bud eyed him interrogatively.
"Does your leg hurt any?"
"N-n-o."
"I'll fetch some more hot water, if you say so."
"I'm feelin' a heap easier--in my leg."
He put the two photographs into the case, closed it, and handed it to Bud with a sigh.