"Nothing, thank you--I--in fact I'm not very strong for the stuff."

The rough brows rose a trifle and fell.

"No? But isn't it usual? Better have a go."

Once more there was that slight touch of hesitancy, as if the son were
not quite sure of the father and wished to make every concession.

"Certainly, if it'll make you easier."

There was an instant softening of the hard lines of the elder Woodbury's
face, as though some favour of import had been done him. He touched a
bell-cord and lowered himself with a little grunt of relaxation into a
chair. The chair was stoutly built, but it groaned a little under the
weight of the mighty frame it received. He leaned back and in his face
was a light which came not altogether from the comfortable glow of the
fire.

And when the servant appeared the big man ordered: "Scotch and seltzer
and one glass with a pitcher of ice."

"Aren't you taking anything, sir?" asked Anthony.

"Who, me? Yes, yes, of course. Why, let me see--bring me a pitcher of
beer." He added as the servant disappeared: "Never could get a taste for
Scotch, and rye doesn't seem to be--er--good form. Eh, Anthony?"

"Nonsense," frowned the son, "haven't you a right to be comfortable in