THE FIGHTING SCRUB
CHAPTER I
THE ROTTER
"Well, son, I guess I'd better be getting
along," said Mr. Bingham. He glanced
frowningly at his watch and then across the
driveway at the dusty car awaiting him. He carefully
avoided looking at the boy beside him, and for
that the boy was very grateful. Now that the moment
for saying good-by had come Clif's spirits, which had
been getting lower and lower during the past hour, had
reached bottom, and he knew that his face revealed the
fact. He was glad when his father went on, speaking
with exaggerated cheerfulness which fooled neither of
them, for there was a lump in Clif's throat and he was
horribly afraid that it would make his voice sound
queer. Being only sixteen years of age, he was far
more fearful of displaying emotion than he would have
been of facing a firing squad, and not for anything in
the world would he have had his father suspect the
presence of that lump!
