Mr。McLeanwasintheticket-office，wherethenewspaperhadtransientlyremindedhimofpolitics。“WallStreet，“hewasexplainingtotheagent，“hasbeenlunchedonbythemRoss-childs，andthey’removingon。FeedingalongtoChicago。Wewant——“Herehenoticedmeand，dragginghisgauntletoff，shookmyhandwithhislustygrasp。
“Youreldestsonjustsaidyouwereinhastetofindme，“Iremarked。
“Loseyou，hemeant。Thekidgetshiswordstwisted。“
“Didn’tknowyouwereafather，Mr。McLean，“simperedtheagent。
Linfixedhiseyeontheman。“Andyoudon’tknowitnow，“saidhe。Thenheremovedhiseye。“Let’sgrub，“headdedtome。Myfrienddidnotwalktothehotel，butslowlyroundandabout，withafaceovercast。“Billyisagoodkid，“hesaidatlength，and，stopping，begantokicksmallmoundsinthedust。Politicsfloatedlightlyoverhim，butherewasamatterdwellingwithhim，heavyandreal。“He’sdeadstuckonbeingacow-puncher，“hepresentlysaid。