“Gosh!” said Dan at last from the very bottom of his soul when Harvey had completed an inventory of the car named in his honour. Then a grin of mischievous delight overspread his broad face. “I believe you, Harvey. Dad’s made a mistake fer once in his life.”
“He has, sure,” said Harvey, who was meditating an early revenge.
“He’ll be mad clear through. Dad jest hates to be mistook in his jedgments.” Dan lay back and slapped his thigh. “Oh, Harvey, don’t you spile the catch by lettin’ on.”
“I don’t want to be knocked down again. I’ll get even with him, though.”
“Never heard any man ever got even with dad. But he’d knock ye down again sure. The more he was mistook the more he’d do it. But goldmines and pistols—”
“I never said a word about pistols,” Harvey cut in, for he was on his oath.
“Thet’s so; no more you did. Two private cars, then, one named fer you an’ one fer her; an’ two hundred dollars a month pocket-money, all knocked into the scuppers fer not workin’ fer ten an’ a ha’af a month! It’s the top haul o’ the season.” He exploded with noiseless chuckles.
“Then I was right?” said Harvey, who thought he had found a sympathiser.
“You was wrong; the wrongest kind o’ wrong! You take right hold an’ pitch in ’longside o’ me, or you’ll catch it, an’ I’ll catch it fer backin’ you up. Dad always gives me double helps ’cause I’m his son, an’ he hates favourin’ folk. ’Guess you’re kinder mad at dad. I’ve been that way time an’ again. But dad’s a mighty jest man; all the fleet says so.”
“Looks like justice, this, don’t it?” Harvey pointed to his outraged nose.