"Feeling a whole lot better to-day, eh, pal?" his son queried.
John Cardigan smiled. "Yes, son," he replied plaintively. "I guess
I'll manage to live till next spring."
"Oh, I knew there was nothing wrong with you, John Cardigan, that a
healthy check wouldn't cure. Pennington rather jolted you, though,
didn't he?"
"He did, Bryce. It was jolt enough to be forced to sell that quarter--
I never expected we'd have to do it; but when I realize that it was
a case of sacrificing you or my Giants, of course you won. And I
didn't feel so badly about it as I used to think I would. I suppose
that's because there is a certain morbid pleasure in a real sacrifice
for those we love. And I never doubted but that Pennington would snap
up the property the instant I offered to sell. Hence his refusal--in
the face of our desperate need for money to carry on until conditions
improve--almost floored your old man."
"Well, we can afford to draw our breath now, and that gives us a
fighting chance, partner. And right after dinner you and I will sit
down and start brewing a pot of powerful bad medicine for the
Colonel."
"Son, I've been sitting here simmering all day." There was a note of
the old dominant fighting John Cardigan in his voice now. "And it has
occurred to me that even if I must sit on the bench and root, I've
not reached the point where my years have begun to affect my thinking
ability.
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