“Stop—you’re mussing me!” Mrs. Manley laughed. “My goodness, such polar bears as I have for children!” Her eyes were shining now, the tired look gone from them. “Now sit down like good boys and get something to eat. Unless—” she motioned with her head. “Want to see father?”
“Yes,” Teddy replied laconically. “We’re not hungry—at least I’m not.”
“Goes for me, too,” Roy declared. “Say, Mom, where is dad?”
“In his office. He’s waiting for you.”
Teddy kissed her again, and, followed by Roy, started toward the next room, beyond which Mr. Manley had his small office. As Teddy opened the door, his father, who had been sitting at his desk, a corn-cob pipe stuck in the corner of his mouth, arose.
Once in a while one sees a man who instinctively reminds one of the plains, of bucking broncos, and of ropes snaking through the air to settle over the horns of a steer. He seems the very spirit of the West. In a parlor or drawing-room or on Broadway, he appears out of place. One is apt to mutter, “How’d he get so far from home? Wonder where he left his pony?”
Such a man was Bardwell Manley—tall, lean, and with that peculiar power about him that hovers over those who are simple and direct men; a mustache that drooped, the ends coming below his mouth on either side; steel-blue eyes, that could twinkle with humor or narrow into two pin-points of light; a skin that stayed brown all the year round.
He thrust out his hand and gripped the hand of Teddy, then of Roy.
“Boys,” he said quietly, “I’m glad to see you. Both all right?” Just that. Yet there was a world of meaning in the simple words.
“Great, Dad,” Roy answered. “Feeling fine!” He waited. “Mother looked a little tired,” he said finally.