His father gripped the hand. His habitual inarticulateness redescended upon him. "You've—I know you're all right, Luke. Don't forget to write once a week: your mother worries."
"I won't forget."
They stood, hands clasped.
Close by, the "train-crier" was calling in a high, nasal voice:
"Train for Mountwille, Doncaster, Downington, Philadelphy, and Noo York! First stop Mountwille!"
"And, Luke——"
"Yes, father?"
"Don't make charges when you don't know facts."
"Perhaps I have a weakness that way," Luke smiled.
His smile conjured another.