up to him to affect a nonchalance he was far from feeling. Mr. Bingham climbed into the seat, glanced again at his watch and turned the switch. Clif slammed the door shut with a bang. Mr. Bingham pressed down on the starter and a low, steady hum came from under the long blue hood. "Well," he said, "let's hear from you often, Clifton."
"Yes, sir." Clif's cheerful grin tightened up harder than ever. He wondered if he would ever be able to get the idiotic expression off his face! His father's use of his full name had almost done for him. Years ago, when he was just a little kid, his father used to kiss him when they parted; even after his mother's death, when there seemed no excuse at all for it; but nowadays Mr. Bingham said "Clifton" instead, and they both understood. And now he had gone and done it again, and Clif's throat felt worse than ever and his eyes felt smarty and—gosh, he wished dad would hurry up and go!
Perhaps dad suspected further delay might prove dangerous, for he suddenly reached his ungloved hand over the top of the door and said very gruffly, "So long, son! Be a good chap!" And Clif returned the tight grasp and nodded silently, and the big touring car purred more loudly for an instant and swept off down the blue gravel driveway and in a twinkling became just a moving shadow between the trunks of the trees where the drive curved to the gate. Clifton Cobb Bingham watched it disappear, waved a gayly negligent hand—although the lone occupant of the car never once looked
