“I reckon dad’s in the woods,” she added, pausing before the open door of the cabin.  “Oh, Dad!” Her voice, clear and high, seemed to fill the whole long canon, and echoed from the green plateau above.  The monotonous strokes of an axe were suddenly intermitted, and somewhere from the depths of the close-set pines a voice answered “Flip.”  There was a pause of a few moments, with some muttering, stumbling, and crackling in the underbrush, and then the appearance of “Dad.”

Had Lance first met him in the thicket, he would have been puzzled to assign his race to Mongolian, Indian, or Ethiopian origin.  Perfunctory but incomplete washings of his hands and face, after charcoal burning, had gradually ground into his skin a grayish slate-pencil pallor, grotesquely relieved at the edges, where the washing had left off, with a border of a darker color.  He looked like an overworked Christy minstrel with the briefest of intervals between his performances.  There were black rims in the orbits of his eyes, as if he gazed feebly out of unglazed spectacles, which heightened his simian resemblance, already grotesquely exaggerated by what appeared to be repeated and spasmodic experiments in dyeing his gray hair.  Without the slightest notice of Lance, he inflicted his protesting and querulous presence entirely on his daughter.

“Well! what’s up now?  Yer ye are calling me from work an hour before noon.  Dog my skin, ef I ever get fairly limbered up afore it’s ‘Dad!’ and ‘Oh, Dad!’”

To Lance’s intense satisfaction the girl received this harangue with an air of supreme indifference, and when “Dad” had relapsed into an unintelligible, and, as it seemed to Lance, a half-frightened muttering, she said coolly,—­

“Ye’d better drop that axe and scoot round getten’ this stranger some breakfast and some grub to take with him.  He’s one of them San Francisco sports out here trout-fishing in the branch.  He’s got adrift from his party, has lost his rod and fixins, and had to camp out last night in the Gin and Ginger Woods.”

“That’s just it; it’s allers suthin like that,” screamed the old man, dashing his fist on his leg in a feeble, impotent passion, but without looking at Lance.  “Why in blazes don’t he go up to that there blamed hotel on the summit?  Why in thunder”—­But here he caught his daughter’s large, freckled eyes full in his own.  He blinked feebly, his voice fell into a tone of whining entreaty.  “Now, look yer, Flip, it’s playing it rather low down on the old man, this yer running in o’ tramps and desarted emigrants and cast-ashore sailors and forlorn widders and ravin’ lunatics, on this yer ranch.  I put it to you, Mister,” he said abruptly, turning to Lance for the first time, but as if he had already taken an active part in the conversation,—­“I put it as a gentleman yourself, and a fair-minded sportin’ man, if this is the square thing?”