“Yes. They take after her.”
“Fine! I’ll be back for the shooting, anyway. Many broods this season?”
“A fair number. It was not too wet.”
For a moment they lingered, smiling at each other, then Jim gave his father’s hand a quick shake, picked up his suitcase, turned.
“I’ll take the runabout, dad. Someone from the Orangeville garage will bring it over in the morning.”
He went out, pushed his way among the leaping dogs to the garage, threw open the doors, and turned on the electric light.
A slim and trim Snapper runabout stood glistening beside a larger car and two automobile trucks. He exchanged his straw hat for a cap; placed hat and suitcase in the boot; picked up a flash light from the work-table, and put it into his pocket, cranked the Snapper, jumped in, ran it to the service entrance, where his father stood ready to check the dogs and close the gates after him.
“Good-bye, dad!” he called out gaily.
“Good-bye, my son.”
The next instant he was speeding through the starry darkness, following the dazzling path blazed out for him by his headlights.