“Yes, I am, an' right here an' now.”
“'Right here an' now,'” Henry repeated, grimly. “Well, that is a good joke; 'right here an' now'—poof! You'd better set in. It will be breakfast time before long.”
“You wait a minute,” Hoag growled, as he took up the lantern and placed it on a bale of cotton; then he turned back to the door, closed the shutter and fastened the metal latch with fingers that fumbled and evoked an audible clatter in the silent room. Then, with his revolver in his hip-pocket, he stalked back to his son, who sat on the bale of leather sullenly picking his teeth with a splinter. Their eyes met like those of two infuriated beasts driven into contact by the goads of spectators. Beyond the lantern's flare the darkness hung like a curtain. Hoag picked up a piece of hard-twisted hemp rope about a yard in length, and with furious jerks proceeded to tie a knot in one end of it.
“You not only try to rob me, but you dare to insult me!” he cried, frothy saliva trickling from the corners of his big, weak mouth. “I'm goin' to give you a lickin' that you won't forget till you die.”
Henry stood up. A smile dawned on his face and died; he locked his hands behind him; his lips were as firm as if cut in granite; his eyelids drew close together, and the balls gleamed with the fire of invincible purpose.
“Wait a minute,” he said. “You are an older man than I am, an' you are my daddy, but if you lay the weight of your hand on me I'll kill you as sure as you've got a live hair on your head.”
“You mean to threaten me—you damned midnight prowler!” And Hoag, brandishing his rope, sprang at his son like a tiger on its prey. But Henry quickly and deftly caught the descending rope, jerked it from the fat fingers, and threw it against the wall. Then, while Hoag stood for an instant bewildered, Henry clutched him round his big, bare neck and began to push him backward over the bale of leather. From side to side the two swung, grunting, panting, swearing. A mist was before Hoag's eyes; ten prongs of steel were piercing and separating the bones and muscles of his neck. He was gasping for breath when, by an extra effort, he tore his son's hands away. For a second they stood warily shifting from side to side, and then they locked in the embrace of madmen, and the struggle for supremacy was renewed. Over the rough floor, here and there among boxes, bundles, and bales, they slid and pounded. Suddenly Henry became conscious that his father was trying to get his hand into his hip-pocket.
“Oh, that's your game, eh?” he said, between his teeth. “Two can work at it.” And the younger suddenly slid his hand over the back of the older man and grasped the hilt of the revolver. Then he ducked downward suddenly and stood aside, the weapon in his hand.
“Stand back!” he ordered, calmly, and Hoag, with eyes of despair on the revolver, fell away. Visions of death flashed and flared before him—visions of the monster Trawley was fearing. He held up his hands; their shadows on the wall quivered like the moving branches of a tree in a storm.
“Don't, for God's sake, don't!” he pleaded. “I'm—I'm your father.”