“Whoop,” came in answer, as the tall, agile figure of Holcomb appeared above the tangle of sumac, followed by a short, gray-haired man in blue flannel, who was stepping over a refractory sapling that Holcomb had bent down.

The trapper and the Clown strode clear of the brush and saw for the first time the man whose home they had been preparing.

Not the Samuel Thayor that Holcomb had talked to during that memorable luncheon at The Players, when he sat silent among Randall’s guests; nor the Samuel Thayor who had faced his wife; nor the Samuel Thayor, the love of whose daughter put strength in his arms and courage in his heart.  But a man with cheeks ruddy from the sting and lift of the morning air; all the worn, haggard look gone from his face.

“Wall, I swan!” shouted the trapper to Holcomb, as he came near enough to shake his hand, “you warn’t perticler ’bout the way you come, Billy.  If your friend ain’t dead beat it ain’t your fault.”

“I hadn’t any choice, Hite,” laughed Holcomb.  “You fellows must have been drowned out last night; the log over the South Branch is gone in the freshet; we had to get round the best way we could.  Step up, Freme,” he said.  “I want you to know Mr. Thayor.  This is Freme Skinner, Mr. Thayor, and this is Hite Holt, and there’s no better anywhere round here.”

Thayor stretched out both hands and caught each extended palm in a hearty grip.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Thayor,” said the trapper, his great freckled paw tight in the white hand of the stranger.  “By goll, you done well, friend.  But what did ye let Billy lead you through sich a hell-patch as he did, Mr. Thayor?” There was a certain silent dignity about the trapper as he greeted the new-comer.  As he spoke the old dog sniffed at Thayor’s knees, and with a satisfied air regained his resting place once more.

“Well, it was about all I cared to do for one morning,” answered Thayor between his breaths, “but you see we found the old trail impossible.  And so you received our telegram in time,” he said, glancing in delight at the freshly thatched roof of the shanty.

“Oh, we got it,” answered the trapper.  “Joe Dubois’s boy come in with your telegram to the valley, and as soon as I got it I dug out for Freme, and we come in here day ’fore yesterday to git things comfortable.”

“Breakfus, gentlemen!” announced the Clown, for the bacon was done to a turn.  “How do you like yourn, Mr. Thayor—­leetle mite o’ fat and lean?”

“Any way it happens to be,” replied the millionaire, as he squeezed into his place at the rough board table next the trapper.  “But before I touch a mouthful I want you all to understand that I don’t wish to be considered as a guest.  I’m on a holiday and I’m going to take my share of whatever comes.”

“Thar, Freme!” exclaimed the trapper, “I told ye Mr. Thayor warn’t perticler.”

* * * * *