But Charley Prentice did not sober up the next day. Amos went out to see him, intending to read him a temperance lesson, but Charley was stretched out on a couch, soggy drunk. Minnie, the Indian woman, who did the cooking and housework, was on the porch with the little boy, who was a miniature edition of Len Ayres.
“Charley Prentice drunk,” said the squaw, explaining the whole thing in three words.
“How are you, Larry?” asked the lawyer.
“Aw right,” replied the boy. “I’ve been talking to Minnie about my other dad, but she don’t do much, except grunt. What do you know about him, Mr. Baggs?”
“Why, I don’t know, Larry,” said Baggs thoughtfully.
“Yes, you do know. All the kids know about him.”
“What did they tell you?”
“They said he’d been in prison for stealing money.”
“Mm-m-m-m—well, that’s about the size of it, Larry.”
“But he’s my dad, ain’t he?”