n, or
boy, for the figure was small, clinging wildly to his place on the
running-board, seeming always in imminent danger of being thrown off.

"He's drunk!" snapped Packard angrily. "Of all blind idiots!"

Another strident blast from the horn, that sent staid old cows
scurrying this way and that to get out of the way, and the car swerved
from the road and took to the open field, headed straight toward the
hill where the two horsemen were. Jerking his horse about, Steve rode
down to meet the new arrivals. And then----

"My God! It's my grandfather! He's gone mad, Bill Royce!"

"No madder'n usual," said Royce.

The car came to a sudden stop. The man on the running-board--he had a
man's face, keen and sharp-eyed and eager, and the body of a slight
boy--jumped down from his place and in a flash disappeared under the
engine. The man at the wheel straightened up and got down, stretching
his legs. Steve, swinging down from his saddle, and coming forward,
measured him with wondering eyes.

And he was a man for men to look at, was old man Packard. Full of
years, he was no less full of vigor, hale and stalwart and breathing
power. A great white beard, cut square, fell across his full chest;
his white mustache was curled upward now as fiercely as fifty years ago
when he had been a man for women to look at, too.

He was dressed as Steve had always seen him, in black corduroy
breeches, high black boots, broad black hat--a man standing upward of
six feet, carrying himself as straight as a ramrod, his chest as
powerful as a blacksmith's bellows, the calf of his leg as thick as
many a man's thigh; big, hard hands, the fingers twisted by toil; the
face weatherbeaten like an old sea captain's, with eyes like the frozen
blue of a clear winter sky.

His voice when he spoke boomed out suddenly, deep and rich and hearty.

"Stephen?" he demanded.

Steve said "Yes" and put out his hand, his eyes shining, the surprising
realization upon him that he was tremendously glad to see his father's
father once more. The old man took the proffered hand into a
hard-locked grip and for a moment held it, while, the other hand on his
grandson's shoulder, he looked steadily into Steve's eyes.

"What sort of a man have they made of you, boy?" he asked bluntly.
"There's the makings of fool, crook an' white man in all of us. What
for a man are you?"

Steve flushed a little under the direct, piercing look, but said
steadily--

"Not a