“There weren’t nothin’ wrong with Harve,” said Uncle Salters, descending the steps. “He hung my boots on the main-truck, and he ain’t over an’ above respectful to such as knows more’n he do, specially about farmin’; but he were mostly misled by Dan.”
Dan in the meantime, profiting by dark hints from Harvey early that morning, was executing a war-dance on deck. “Tom, Tom!” he whispered down the hatch. “His folks has come, an’ Dad hain’t caught on yet, an’ they’re pow-wowin’ in the cabin. She’s a daisy, an’ he’s all Harve claimed he was, by the looks of him.”
“Howly Smoke!” said Long Jack, climbing out covered with salt and fish-skin. “D’ye belave his tale av the kid an’ the little four-horse rig was thrue?”
“I knew it all along,” said Dan. “Come an’ see Dad mistook in his judgments.”
They came delightedly, just in time to hear Cheyne say: “I’m glad he has a good character, because—he’s my son.”
Disko’s jaw fell—Long Jack always vowed that he heard the click of it—and he stared alternately at the man and the woman.
“I got his telegram in San Diego four days ago, and we came over.”
“In a private car?” said Dan. “He said ye might.”
“In a private car, of course.”
Dan looked at his father with a hurricane of irreverent winks.
“There was a tale he told us av drivin’ four little ponies in a rig av his own,” said Long Jack. “Was that thrue now?”
“Very likely,” said Cheyne. “Was it, Mama?”