“I suppose you know my brothers, sir, the Berkleys.”
“I should say so,” and Hale held out his hand. “You're Bob?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I knew you were coming, and I'm mighty glad to see you. I hope you and June will be good friends and I'll be very glad to have you watch over her when I'm away.”
“I'd like nothing better, sir,” he said cheerfully, and quite impersonally as far as June was concerned. Then his eyes lighted up.
“My brothers don't seem to want me to join the Police Guard. Won't you say a word for me?”
“I certainly will.”
“Thank you, sir.”
That “sir” no longer bothered Hale. At first he had thought it a mark of respect to his superior age, and he was not particularly pleased, but when he knew now that the lad was another son of the old gentleman whom he saw riding up the valley every morning on a gray horse, with several dogs trailing after him—he knew the word was merely a family characteristic of old-fashioned courtesy.
“Isn't he nice, June?”