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A great illumination came to Josiah. He was himself five feet eleven. He had worn whiskers, and his face had been thin in those days. And Johnnie had said his father’s name was Josiah Childs. He, Josiah, was this model husband who neither smoked, swore, nor drank. He was this seafaring man whose memory had been so carefully shielded by Agatha’s forgiving fiction. He warmed toward her. She must have changed mightily since he left. He glowed with penitence. Then his heart sank as he thought of trying to live up to this reputation Agatha had made for him. This boy with the trusting blue eyes would expect it of him. Well, he’d have to do it. Agatha had been almighty square with him. He hadn’t thought she had it in her.

The resolve he might there and then have taken was doomed never to be, for he heard the kitchen door open to give vent to a woman’s nagging, irritable voice.

“Johnnie!–you!” it cried.

How often had he heard it in the old days: “Josiah!–you!” A shiver went through him. Involuntarily, automatically, with a guilty start, he turned his hand back upward so that the cigar was hidden. He felt himself shrinking and shrivelling as she stepped out on the stoop. It was his unchanged wife, the same shrew wrinkles, with the same sour-drooping corners to the thin-lipped mouth. But there was more sourness, an added droop, the lips were thinner, and the shrew wrinkles were deeper. She swept Josiah with a hostile, withering stare.

“Do you think your father would stop work to talk to tramps?” she demanded of the boy, who visibly quailed, even as Josiah.

“I was only answering his questions,” Johnnie pleaded doggedly but hopelessly. “He wanted to know–“

“And I suppose you told him,” she snapped. “What business is it of his prying around? No, and he gets nothing to eat. As for you, get to work at once. I’ll teach you, idling at your chores. Your father wa’n’t like that. Can’t I ever make you like him?”

Johnnie bent his back, and the bucksaw resumed its protesting skreek. Agatha surveyed Josiah sourly. It was patent she did not recognise him.

“You be off,” she commanded harshly. “None of your snooping around here.”

Josiah felt the numbness of paralysis creeping over him. He moistened his lips and tried to say something, but found himself bereft of speech.

“You be off, I say,” she rasped in her high-keyed voice, “or I’ll put the constable after you.”

Josiah turned obediently. He heard the door slam as he went down the walk. As in a nightmare he opened the gate he had opened ten thousand times and stepped out on the sidewalk. He felt dazed. Surely it was a dream. Very soon he would wake up with a sigh of relief. He rubbed his forehead and paused indecisively. The monotonous complaint of the bucksaw came to his ears. If that boy had any of the old Childs spirit in him, sooner or later he’d run away. Agatha was beyond the endurance of human flesh. She had not changed, unless for the worse, if such a thing were possible. That boy would surely run for it, maybe soon. Maybe now.

Josiah Childs straightened up and threw his shoulders back. The great-spirited West, with its daring and its carelessness of consequences when mere obstacles stand in the way of its desire, flamed up in him. He looked at his watch, remembered the time table, and spoke to himself, solemnly, aloud. It was an affirmation of faith:

“I don’t care a hang about the law. That boy can’t be crucified. I’ll give her a double allowance, four times, anything, but he goes with me. She can follow on to California if she wants, but I’ll draw up an agreement, in which what’s what, and she’ll sign it, and live up to it, by George, if she wants to stay. And she will,” he added grimly. “She’s got to have somebody to nag.”

He opened the gate and strode back to the woodshed door. Johnnie looked up, but kept on sawing.

“What’d you like to do most of anything in the world?” Josiah demanded in a tense, low voice.

Johnnie hesitated, and almost stopped sawing. Josiah made signs for him to keep it up.

“Go to sea,” Johnnie answered. “Along with my father.”

Josiah felt himself trembling.

“Would you?” he asked eagerly.

“Would I!”

The look of joy on Johnnie’s face decided everything.

“Come here, then. Listen. I’m your father. I’m Josiah Childs. Did you ever want to run away?”

Johnnie nodded emphatically.

“That’s what I did,” Josiah went on. “I ran away.” He fumbled for his watch hurriedly. “We’ve just time to catch the train for California. I live there now. Maybe Agatha, your mother, will come along afterward. I’ll tell you all about it on the train. Come on.”

He gathered the half-frightened, half-trusting boy into his arms for a moment, then, hand in hand, they fled across the yard, out of the gate, and down the street. They heard the kitchen door open, and the last they heard was:

“Johnnie!–you! Why ain’t you sawing? I’ll attend to your case directly!”