That very afternoon had
seen the return of Dan Kerry, junior, home from school for the
Christmas vacation, and Dan was the apple of his father's eye.
Mrs. Kerry had reserved her dour Scottish comments upon the
boy's school report for a more seemly occasion than the first day
of his holidays; but Kerry had made no attempt to conceal his
jubilation--almost immoral, his wife had declared it to be--
respecting the lad's athletic record. His work on the junior
left wing had gained the commendation of a celebrated
international; and Kerry, who had interviewed the gymnasium
instructor, had learned that Dan Junior bade fair to become an
amateur boxer of distinction.
"He is faster on his feet than any boy I ever handled," the
expert had declared. "He hasn't got the weight behind it yet, of
course, but he's developing a left that's going to make history.
I'm of opinion that there isn't a boy in the seniors can take him
on, and I'll say that he's a credit to you."
Those words had fallen more sweetly upon the ears of Chief
Inspector Kerry than any encomium of the boy's learning could
have done. On the purely scholastic side his report was not a
good one, admittedly. "But," murmured Kerry aloud, "he's going
to be a man.
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