“I don't like it, boy,” said his father, shaking his head, “and especially in a clergyman.”
“But that's where you are off, dad. The trouble is, when I come within range of any of my flock all my flip vocabulary absolutely vanishes, and I find myself talking like a professor of English or a maiden lady school ma'am of very certain age.”
“I don't like it, boy. Correct English is the only English for a gentleman.”
“I wonder,” said the lad. “But I don't want to worry you, dad.”
“Oh, as for me, that matters nothing at all, but I am thinking of you and of your profession, your standing.”
“I know that, dad. I sometimes wish you would think a little more about yourself. But what of Neil Fraser?”
“He has come into some money. He has bought the ranch.”
Barry's tone expressed doubtful approval. “Neil is a good sort, dad, awfully reckless, but I like him,” said Barry. “He is up and up with it all.”
“Now, what about your afternoon?” said his father.
“Well, to begin with, I had a dose of my old friend, the enemy.”