hooked nose.
But though Mr. Shrimplin's physical equipment was of the slightest for
the role in life he would have essayed, nature, which gives the hunted
bird and beast feather and fur to blend with the russets and browns of
the forest and plain, had not dealt ungenerously with him, since he
could believe that a lie long persisted in gathered to itself the very
soul and substance of truth. Another hollow little laugh escaped him.

"Lord, Custer, I was foolin'--I am always foolin'! It was my chance to
see the stuff that's in you. Well, it's pretty good stuff!" he added
artfully.

But Custer was not ready for the reception of this new idea; his
father's display of cowardice had seemed only too real to him. Yet the
little lamplighter's manner took on confidence as he prepared to
establish a few facts as a working basis for their subsequent
reconciliation.

"I'd been a little better pleased, son, if you'd gone quicker when you
heard them calls Mr. Langham was letting out; you did hang back, you'll
remember--it looked like you was depending on me too much; but I got no
desire to rub this in. What you done was nervy, and what I might have
looked for with the bringing-up I've given you. I shan't mention that
you hung back." He shot a glance out of the corners of his bleached blue
eyes in Custer's direction. "How many minutes do you suppose you was in
getting out of the cart and over the fence? Not more than five, I'd say,
and all that time I was sitting there shaking with laughter--just
shaking with inward laughter; I asked you not to leave me alone! Well, I
always was a joker but I consider that my best joke!"

Custer maintained a stony silence, yet he would have given anything
could he have accepted those pleasant fictions his father was seeking to
establish in the very habiliments of truth.

"I hoped you'd know how to take a joke, son!" said the little
lamplighter in a hurt tone.

"Were you joking, sure enough?" asked Custer doubtingly.

"Is it likely I could have been in earnest?" demanded Shrimplin,
hitching up his chin with an air of disdain. "What's my record right
here in Mount Hope? Was it Andy Gilmore or Colonel Harbison that found
old man McBride when he was murdered in his store?" And the little
lamplighter's tone grew more and more indignant as he proceeded. "Maybe
you think it was your disgustin' and dirty Uncle Joe? _I_ seem to
remember it was Bill Shrimplin, or do I just dream I was there--but I
ain't