Jim rose, glanced at his watch:
“Dad, I’ll just be running over to Brookhollow to get that box. I haven’t such a lot of time, if I’m to catch the midnight train at Orangeville.”
“I should say you hadn’t,” said his father.
He was disappointed, but he smiled as he exchanged a handclasp with his only son.
“You’re coming right back from Paris?”
“Next steamer. I’ve a lot of work on hand, thank goodness! But that only puts me under heavier obligations to the Princess Mistchenka.”
“Yes, I suppose so. Anything but ingratitude, Jim. It’s the vilest vice of ’em all. They say it’s in the Irish blood—ingratitude. They must never prove it by a Neeland. Well, my boy—I’m not lonesome, you understand; busy men have no time to be lonesome—but run up, will you, when you get back?”
“I’ll show you a brace of promising pups. They stand rabbits, still, but they won’t when the season is over.”
“Blue Bird’s pups?”