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。

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