"Oh! you think so, do you, Jack?" he remarked with lofty scorn, "just wait till you glimpse my awful dad, and then you can talk. He's a holy terror! Why, even the yellow curs in the town streets take to running with their tails between their hind legs when they see him coming along. His looks and his fog-horn voice have carried him through many a tight place; but there's one hole he always sticks in. My dad is as good as a whole regiment, to make men shake in their boots; but--" and again did the kid puncher pause in that strange way, while a mysterious smile crept over his dark face, as though certain recollections gave him more or less amusement.