Bart had only to wait ten minutes when his father appeared. Except for a
slight limp and some pallor in his face, Mr. Stirling seemed in his
prime. He had kindly eyes and was always pleasant and smiling, even when
in pain.
"Well! well!" he cried briskly, with a gratified glance at his son after
looking over the register, "all the real hard work is done, the work
that always worries me, with my poor eyesight. Come up to the paymaster,
young man! There's an advance till salary day, and well you've earned
it."
Mr. Stirling took some money from his pocket. There was a silver dollar
and some loose change. Bart looked pleased, then quite grave, and he put
his hand resolutely behind him.
"I can't take it, father," he said. "You have a hard enough time, and I
ought to pay you for the experience I'm getting here instead of being
paid."
"Young man," spoke Mr. Stirling with affected sternness, but a
twinkling in his eye, "you take your half-pay, make tracks, enjoy
yourself, and don't worry about a trifle of a dollar or two. If you
happen to drop around this way about nine o'clock, I'll be glad of your
company home."
He slipped the money into Bart's pocket and playfully pushed him through
the doorway.
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