Something told them he was fumbling his hat and that his
head was bent.
"Ask him to come in here, father," said Ruby promptly. "I can't bear
to see a man hungry. I don't care who or what he is."
Joey looked at David in doubt and perplexity. David, who had clutched
the back of his chair with tense fingers, nodded his head. The old
man, obeying the second but unvoiced entreaty of his daughter, strode
out into the hall. They heard the low mutter of masculine voices, one
in evident protest, the other cordially insistent.
"He's changed quite a bit," whispered Ruby,
David rose to his feet and stood staring blankly at the man who
followed Joey into the dining-room, the man who had struck the never-
to-be-forgotten blow. Could this gray, lean, shuffling creature be the
leonine, despotic Tom Braddock of other days?
The man stopped just inside the door and fixed his sullen gaze
steadily upon the face of the Virginian. Without glancing at Ruby, he
uttered a curt "Howdy do, Ruby."
"I guess we ain't expected to shake hands," said Braddock, a twisted
smile on his lips.
"I can't shake the hand that struck me as yours did when I could not
defend myself," said David coldly.
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