Douglas picked a bridle from the fence and started after Buster.
It was nearly supper time and Doug and his father were reading in the living-room when Judith returned. The wind had risen and fine particles of snow sifted under the eaves and over the table. The wood stove glowed red hot and the smell of cedar mingled with that of frying beef in the kitchen.
Judith, without waiting to take off her mackinaw, cheeks scarlet, eyes brilliant, stood before her father.
"Here I am, Dad."
John looked up from his book. "Have you milked yet?"
"No, sir."
"Go out and do it."
"I want to know if you're going to lick me, Dad?"
"What did I promise you, last night?" he demanded.
"Do you mean to keep that promise ?" asked Judith.
"Go out and tend to your milking!" roared John, rising to his feet and throwing the book across the room. "Get out of my sight, you little fool, you blankety-blank—" But Judith had fled and Douglas retired to the kitchen.
Supper was a silent affair. But that evening when the family had gathered under the lamp to read, Douglas said, "Scott Parsons wants me to take the mail stage for him Wednesday."
"Where's he going?" asked John.
"Out after his registered bull. It's strayed again."
"Huh!" grunted John. "Are he and Oscar Jefferson still fighting over that bull?"
"I guess so," replied Douglas. "Can I go, Dad?"
"It will put the dehorning off another day, but I guess you can go. That extra money will come in handy.
