“Of course, and she is your daddy’s wife. You see they have to have that—”
Grant found himself getting into deep water, but the sharp little intellect had cut a corner and was now ahead of him.
“Then I’ll be your little boy,” he said, and, clambering up to Grant’s shoulder pressed a kiss on his cheek. In a sudden burst of emotion Grant brought his team to a stop and clasped the little fellow in both his arms. For a moment everything seemed misty.
“And I have lived to be thirty-two years old and have never known what this meant,” he said to himself.
“Daddy’s hardly ever home, anyway,” the boy added, naively.
“Where is your home?”
“Down beside the river. We live there in summer.”
And so the conversation continued and the acquaintanceship grew as man and boy plied back and forth on their mile-long furrow. At length it occurred to Grant that he should send Wilson home; the boy’s long absence might be occasioning some uneasiness. They stopped at the end of the field and carefully removed teddy from his place of prestige, but just at that moment a horsefly buzzing about caused Prince to stamp impatiently, and the big hoof came down on the boy’s foot. Wilson sent up a cry proportionate to the possibilities of the occasion, and Grant in alarm tore off the boot and stocking. Fortunately the soil had been soft, and the only damage done was a slight bruise across the upper part of the foot.
“There, there,” said Grant, soothingly, caressing the injury with his fingers. “It will be all right in a minute. Prince didn’t mean to do it, and besides, I’ve seen much worse than that at the war.”
At the mention of war the boy suspended a cry half uttered.