ization; I was only what my environments had
made me. Dad had let me run, and he had never kicked on the price of my
folly, or tried to pull me up at the start. He had given his time to his
mines and his cattle-ranches and railroads, and had left his only son to
go to the devil if he chose and at his own pace. Then, because the son had
come near making a thorough job of it, he had done--_this_. I felt hardly
used and at odds with life, during those last few hours in the little old
burgh.

All the next day I went the pace as usual with the gang, and at seven,
after an early dinner, caught a down-town car and set off alone to the
ferry. I had not seen dad since I left him in the library, and I did not
particularly wish to see him, either. Possibly I had some unfilial notion
of making him ashamed and sorry. It is even possible that I half-expected
him to come and apologize, and offer to let things go on in the old way.
In that event I was prepared to be chesty. I would look at him coldly and
say: "You have seen fit to buy me a ticket to Osage, Montana. So be it; to
Osage, Montana, am I bound." Oh, I had it all fixed!

Dad came into the ferry waiting-room just as the passengers were pouring
off the boat, and sat down beside me as if nothing had happened. He did
not look sad, or contrite, or ashamed--not, at least, enough to notice.
He glanced at his watch, and then handed me a letter.

"There," he began briskly, "that is to Perry Potter, the Bay State
foreman. I have wired him that you are on the way."

The gate went up at that moment, and he stood up and held out his hand.
"Sorry I can't go over with you," he said. "I've an important meeting to
attend. Take care of yourself, Ellie boy."

I gripped his hand warmly, though I had intended to give him a dead-fish
sort of shake. After all, he was my dad, and there were just us two. I
picked up my suit-case and started for the gate. I looked back once, and
saw dad standing there gazing after me--and he did not look particularly
brisk. Perhaps, after all, dad cared more than he let on. It's a way the
Carletons have, I have heard.

CHAPTER II.

The White Divide.

If a phrenologist should undertake to "read" my head, he would undoubtedly
find my love of home--if that is what it is called--a sharply defined
welt. I know that I watched the lights of old Frisco slip behind me with
as virulent a case of the deeps as often comes to a man when his digestion
is good. It w