mule. Seem like it had run a gregus long way when Mary come along. She was just a walking and she reached up and grabbed the mule and she rode him back with me. And she made them untie me. And I loved her ever since. I came up here every year to see how John is treating her. I depone—"
John rose and, striding around the table, he seized the old man by the collar. Douglas put his hand on his father's arm.
"Drop it, Dad, or I swear I'll think old Johnny is a better man than you. I asked him to tell. Throw me out if you want to. Keep your hands off this little chap. One thing is sure. He appreciates Mother more than any of the rest of us have."
"Get the half-wit out of my sight, then," growled John, returning to his seat.
"I wish a lot of folks with whole wits knew how to be as good a friend as Johnny," said Douglas stoutly.
"So do I!" Mary's voice trembled, but her glance at the little old man was very lovely.
The rest of the meal was finished in silence, Douglas turning over in his mind this strange new picture of Judith's mother. Could anything, he wondered, change Judith so? A curious anger against his father's stupidity was at that moment born in Douglas' heart, an anger that never was wholly to leave him.
That evening, as Douglas sat in his favorite place beside the alfalfa stack, old Johnny led up his little gray mare.
"I'll be cowling myself along home now, Doug," he said. "John is awful insidious to me. I just want to say, Doug, that you're the first man in this valley ever stuck up for me and some day I depone I'll get even with you."
