The Dark Star

"You're coming right back from Paris?"

"Next steamer. I've a lot of work on hand, thank goodness! But that

only puts me under heavier obligations to the Princess Mistchenka."

"Yes, I suppose so. Anything but ingratitude, Jim. It's the vilest

vice of 'em all. They say it's in the Irish blood--ingratitude. They

must never prove it by a Neeland. Well, my boy--I'm not lonesome, you

understand; busy men have no time to be lonesome--but run up, will

you, when you get back?"

"You bet I will."

"I'll show you a brace of promising pups. They stand rabbits, still,

but they won't when the season is over."

"Blue Bird's pups?"

"Yes. They take after her."

"Fine! I'll be back for the shooting, anyway. Many broods this

season?"

"A fair number. It was not too wet."

For a moment they lingered, smiling at each other, then Jim gave his

father's hand a quick shake, picked up his suitcase, turned.

"I'll take the runabout, dad. Someone from the Orangeville garage will

bring it over in the morning."

He went out, pushed his way among the leaping dogs to the garage,

threw open the doors, and turned on the electric light.

A slim and trim Snapper runabout stood glistening beside a larger car

and two automobile trucks. He exchanged his straw hat for a cap;

placed hat and suitcase in the boot; picked up a flash light from the

work-table, and put it into his pocket, cranked the Snapper, jumped

in, ran it to the service entrance, where his father stood ready to

check the dogs and close the gates after him.

"Good-bye, dad!" he called out gaily.

"Good-bye, my son."

The next instant he was speeding through the starry darkness,

following the dazzling path blazed out for him by his headlights.