“Thar, kiss daddy on the cheek and go to sleep,” Hoag said, under the thrill of delight which the boy's caresses invariably evoked. “It's late—awful late fer a chap like you to be awake.”
Jack drew his arm away, rolled back against the cool wall, and sighed.
“Daddy,” he said, presently, just as Hoag was composing himself for sleep, “I don't want Grandma to tag after me so much. She watches me like a hawk, an' is always saying if I don't look out I'll grow up and be good for nothing like Henry. Daddy, what makes Henry that way?”
“I don't know; he's just naturally lazy. Now go to sleep.”
“Some folks like Henry very, very much,” the boy pursued, getting further and further from sleep. “Grandma says he really is trying to be good, but don't know how. Was you like him when you was young, Daddy?”
“No—I don't know; why, no, I reckon not. Why do you ask such silly questions?”
“Grandma told Aunt Dilly one day that you always did drink, but that you didn't often show it. She said Henry had quit, and that was wonderful for any one who had it in his blood like Henry has. Is it in my blood, too, Daddy?”
“No.” Hoag's patience was exhausted. “Now go to sleep. I've got to rest, I'm tired, and must work to-morrow.”
“Are you a soldier, Daddy?” Jack pursued his habit of ignoring all commands from that particular source.
“No, I'm not. Now go to sleep; if you don't, I'll send you back to your own bed.”