"A gentleman of the class you'll be in can't callous his hands with
work. I spent my life making money; you can use your life throwing it
away--like a gentleman. But"--he reached out at this point and smashed a
burly fist into a palm hardly less hard--"but I'll be damned, Anthony,
if I'll let you stay here in Long Island wasting your time riding the
wildest horses you can get and practising with an infernal revolver.
What the devil do you mean by it?"

"I don't know," said the other, musing. "Of course the days of revolvers
are past, but I love the feel of the butt against my palm--I love the
kick of the barrel tossing up--I love the balance; and when I have a
six-shooter in my hand, sir, I feel as if I had six lives. Odd, isn't
it?" He grew excited as he talked, his eyes gleaming with dancing points
of fire. "And I'll tell you this, sir: I'd rather be out in the country
where men still wear guns, where the sky isn't stained with filthy coal
smoke, where there's an horizon wide enough to breathe in, where there's
man-talk instead of this damned chatter over tea-cups--"

"Stop!" cried John Woodbury, and leaned forward, "no matter what fool
ideas you get into your head--you're going to be a _gentleman_!"

The swaying forward of that mighty body, the outward thrust of the jaws,
the ring of the voice, was like the crashing of an ax when armoured men
meet in battle. The flicker in the eyes of Anthony was the rapier which
swerves from the ax and then leaps at the heart. For a critical second
their glances crossed and then the habit of obedience conquered.

"I suppose you know, sir."

The father stared gloomily at the floor.

"You're sort of mad, Anthony?"

Perhaps there was nothing more typical of Anthony than that he never
frowned, no matter how angered he might be. Now the cold light passed
from his eyes. He rose and passed behind the chair of the elder man,
dropping a hand upon those massive shoulders.

"Angry with myself, sir, that I should so nearly fall out with the
finest father that walks the earth."

The eyes of the grey man half closed and a semblance of a smile touched
those stiff, stern lips; one of the great work-broken hands went up and
rested on the fingers of his son.

"And there'll be no more of this infernal Western nonsense that you're
always reverting to? No more of this horse-and-gun-and-hell-bent-away
stuff?"

"I suppose not," said Anthony heavily.

"Well, Anthony, sit down and tell me a