“I hope,” said Gordon, “that old quarrels will be forgotten and old scores wiped out. I am sorry I spoke as I did this morning. You are quite right, Mr. Jocelyn; the land is yours and has always been yours. It is from you I must ask permission to shoot.”
Jocelyn eyed him grimly.
“Don’t make it hard for me,” said Gordon. “The land is yours, and that also which you lost with it will be returned. It is what my father wishes—now.”
He held out his hand. Jocelyn took it as though stunned.
Gordon, still holding his hard hand, drew him outside to the porch.
“How much did you have in the Sagamore & Wyandotte Railway before our system bought it?” asked Gordon.
“All I had—seven thousand dollars—” Suddenly the old man’s hand began to tremble. He raised his gray head and looked up at the stars.
“That is yours still,” said Gordon, gently, “with interest. My father wishes it.”
Old man Jocelyn looked up at the stars. They seemed to swim in silver streaks through the darkness.
“Come,” said Gordon, gayly, “we are brother sportsmen now—and that sky means a black frost and a flight. Will you invite me to shoot over Brier Brook swales to-morrow?”