Jeff began to laugh.
"It's your crazy old father, Nan," he cried. "Say, just look at him.
Feast your eyes on him. Can you beat it? Here we are right up to our
necks in an epoch-making business proposition and he don't concern
himself two whoops. Was there ever such a bunch of simple trusting
folly as is rolled up in that six feet three of good-hearted honesty?
_That's_ what's not fair to--Nan."
The girl came and laid a protecting hand upon the flannel-clad
shoulders of her father. Just for a moment her laughing eyes gazed
affectionately down upon the recumbent form of the only parent she
possessed, and whom she idolized. He was stretched out luxuriously,
his great be-chapped legs reaching to the table leg as a support to
hold the rocker at a comfortable poise. His shirt sleeves were rolled
up displaying a pair of arms like legs of mutton. The beadwork
wristlets were held fixed in their position by the distended muscles
beneath them. She was proud of him, this father who went through the
world trusting human nature, and handling cattle as only an artist in
his profession can handle them.
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