Rankin is unbearably righteous-looking, at times.

I used often to wish he'd do something wicked, just to take that moral look off him; but the pedestal of his solemn virtue was too high for mere human temptations.

So I had to content myself with shying a shoe his way and asking him what there was funny about me.
After dad got well enough to go back to watching his millions grow, and didn't seem to need me to keep him cheered up, life in our house dropped back to its old level--which means that I saw dad once a day, maybe.

He gave me back my allowance and took to paying my bills again, and I was free to get into the old pace--which I will confess wasn't slow.

The Montana incident seemed closed for good, and only Frosty's letters and a rather persistent memory was left of it.
In a month I had to acknowledge two emotions I hadn't counted on: surprise and disgust.