I looked, and we both bolted for the door, reaching it just as old King's foot was on the lower step of the platform.

Weaver, looking like chief mourner at a funeral, was down below in his car.

King came up another step, glaring and evidently in a mood for war and extermination.
"How d'y' do, King ?" Dad greeted over my shoulder, before I could say a word.

He may not have had his finger-tips together, but he had the finger-tip tone, all right, and I knew it was a good man who would get the better of him.

"Out looking for strays?
Come right up; I've got two brand new married couples here, and I need some sane person pretty bad to help me out." There was the faintest possible accent on the _sane_.
Say, it was the finest thing I had ever seen dad do.