Chapter Twenty Nine.
The Last.
Once more I change the scene, from the wild regions of the north to the little less wild lands of Colorado.
On a certain bright forenoon in Autumn I stood in the doorway of Sunny Creek Cottage watching a clumsy vehicle as it laboured slowly up the hill. I was alone that day, old Mrs Liston, Eve, and “Aunt Temple” having gone off in the waggon for a long drive to visit a relative with hunting proclivities, who had built himself a log-hut in a ravine of the neighbouring mountains, that he might be in closer proximity to the bears and deer.
With some curiosity I approached the lumbering machine to assist the occupant, who seemed unable, or too impatient, to open the door. It was a stiff door, and swung open with a jerk which caused the occupant’s hat to fall off, and reveal a bald head.
“Father!” I gasped.
“Punch, my boy!”
The dear old man tripped in his haste to get down, plunged into my bosom, threw his arms round my neck to save himself, and almost bore me to the ground. Neither of us being demonstrative in our affections, this unpremeditated, not to say unintentional, embrace I felt to be quite touching. My father obviously resolved to make the most of his opportunities, for he gave me a thoroughly exhaustive hug before releasing me.
“I—I—didn’t m–mean,” said my father, blazing with excitement, and gasping with a mingled tendency to laugh and weep, “didn’t mean to come it quite so strong, P–Punch, my boy, b–but you’ll make allowance for a momentary weakness. I’m getting an old man, Punch. What makes you grin so, you backwoods koonisquat?”
The last sentence, with its opprobrious epithet (coined on the spot), was addressed with sudden asperity to the driver of the clumsy vehicle, who was seated on his box, with mouth expanded from ear to ear.