Then, quite himself again, a voice came to him from
the rocky trail above the road with the hail of "Father!" He started
quickly as a lad of fifteen or sixteen came bounding down the hillside,
and ran towards him.
"You passed me and I called to you, but you did not seem to hear,"
said the boy breathlessly. "Then I ran after you. Have you been to the
Mission?"
Steptoe looked at him quite as breathlessly, but from a deeper emotion.
He was, even at first sight, a handsome lad, glowing with youth and the
excitement of his run, and, as the father looked at him, he could
see the likeness to his mother in his clear-cut features, and even a
resemblance to himself in his square, compact chest and shoulders and
crisp, black curls. A thrill of purely animal paternity passed over him,
the fierce joy of his flesh over his own flesh! His own son, by God!
They could not take THAT from him; they might plot, swindle, fawn,
cheat, lie, and steal away his affections, but there he was, plain to
all eyes, his own son, his very son!
"Come here," he said in a singular, half-weary and half-protesting
voice, which the boy instantly recognized as his father's accents of
affection.
The boy hesitated as he stood on the edge of the road and pointed with
mingled mischief and fastidiousness to the depths of impalpable red
dust that lay between him and the horseman. Steptoe saw that he was very
smartly attired in holiday guise, with white duck trousers and patent
leather shoes, and, after the Spanish fashion, wore black kid gloves.
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