“Hello, dad!” he said, crossing swiftly to where his father sat by the reading lamp.
Their powerful grip lingered. Old Dick Neeland, ruddy, white-haired, straight as a pine, stood up in his old slippers and quilted smoking coat, his brier pipe poised in his left hand.
“Splendid, Jim. I’ve been thinking about you this evening.” He might have added that there were few moments when his son was not in his thoughts.
“Are you all right, dad?”
“Absolutely. You are, too, I see.”
They seated themselves.
“Hungry, Jim?”
“No; I dined aboard.”
“You didn’t telegraph me.”
“No; I came at short notice.”