"Stephen?" he demanded.
Steve said "Yes" and put out his hand, his eyes shining, the surprising
realization upon him that he was tremendously glad to see his father's
father once more. The old man took the proffered hand into a
hard-locked grip and for a moment held it, while, the other hand on his
grandson's shoulder, he looked steadily into Steve's eyes.
"What sort of a man have they made of you, boy?" he asked bluntly.
"There's the makings of fool, crook an' white man in all of us. What
for a man are you?"
Steve flushed a little under the direct, piercing look, but said
steadily--
"Not a crook, I hope."
"That's something, if it ain't everything," snorted the old man as,
withdrawing his hand, he found and lighted a long stogie. "Blenham
tells me you fired him las' night?"
Young Packard nodded, watching his grandfather's face for the first
sign of opposition. But just now the old man's face told nothing.
"Thinking of runnin' the outfit yourself, Stephen?" came the next
question quietly.
"Yes. I had intended looking in on you in a day or so to talk matters
over. I understand that my father left everything to me and that it is
pretty heavily mortgaged to you."
"Uhuh. I let Phil have a right smart bit of money on Number Ten firs'
an' las', my boy. Don't want to pay it off this mornin', do you?"
Steve laughed.
"I'm broke, Grandy," he said lightly, unconsciously adopting the old
title for the man who had made him love him and hate him a score of
times.
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