“Same kind,” he answered. “None. But look a-here, Sonny—” he added, “I found out something.”
“I bet you did,” said the Inger.
“I ain’t ever going to have any luck,” said the old man. “I’m done for. I’m done. A year or two more and I’ll be spaded in. It’s the darndest, funniest feeling,” he said musingly, “to get on to it that you’re all in—a back number—got to quit plannin’ it.”
“Not on your life—” the Inger began, but his father roared at him.
“Shut up!” he said fondly. “You danged runt you, you must have knowed it for two years back.”
“Knowed nothin’,” said the Inger, stoutly.
The older man put his plate on the ground and lay down beside it, his head on his hand.
“It’s a devil of a feel,” he said.
“Don’t feel it,” said the Inger.
“Cut it,” said his father, almost sternly. “I brought you up to kill a man if you have to—but not to lie to him, ain’t I? Well, don’t you lie to me now.”