“Oh, I’d trust you anywhere in the world, trail or no trail.  That’s the way you got me out of Bog Eddy that night, and that’s the way you saved Sam Thayor.  He’s coming, you know.  Wants to meet you the worst kind.  I’m keeping you for a surprise, but he’ll hug himself all over when he finds out it’s you.”

The young man raised his eyes in doubt.

“Thayor?  I don’t know as I—­”

“Why, of course you remember the Thayors, Billy!  They were at Long Lake three or four summers ago.”

“Oh! a short, thick-set man, with grayish hair?” replied Holcomb in his low, well-modulated voice—­the voice of a man used to the silence of the big woods.  “Let’s see,” he mused—­“wasn’t it he that cut himself so badly with an axe over at Otter Pond?  Yes, I remember.”

“So does Thayor, Billy, and it’ll be a good many years before he forgets it,” declared Jack.  “You saved his life, he says.  That’s one thing he wants to see you for, and another is that he’s played out and needs a rest.”

“Bless me!” cried Brompton in the tragic tones of his profession.  “You saved his life, me boy?”

Holcomb, for the first time, appeared embarrassed.

“Well, that’s mighty good of him to think so, but I didn’t do much,” he replied modestly.  “Now I come to think of it, he was badly cut and I helped him down to Doc’ Rand’s at Bog River.  That was, as I figure it, about three years ago—­wasn’t it, Randall?”

“You mean,” returned Randall, “that you took him down on your back, and if you hadn’t Sam Thayor would have bled to death.”

“Bless my soul!” cried the actor.

“Well, you see,” continued Holcomb ignoring the interruption, “there are some that can handle an axe just as easily as some fellows can fiddle, and again there are some that can’t.  It’s just a little knack, that’s all, gentlemen, and, of course, Mr. Thayor wasn’t used to chopping.”

“The only thing Sam Thayor can handle is money,” interposed Keene.  “He’s got millions, Billy—­millions!”

“Millions,” chuckled Randall; “I should think so.  He owns about five of ’em.”  As he spoke he half rose from his chair and waved his hand to a well-dressed, gray-haired man whose eyes were searching the crowded hall.  “Thayor!” he shouted.

As the new-comer moved closer the whole group rose to greet him.

“I’m afraid, my dear Jack, I’ve kept you all waiting,” the banker began.  “A special meeting of the Board detained me longer than I had anticipated.  I hope you will forgive me.  I am not usually late, I assure you, gentlemen.  This for me?” and he picked up his waiting cocktail.

Holcomb, although his eyes had not wavered from Thayor, had not yet greeted him.  That a man so quiet and unostentatious belonged to the favoured rich was a new experience to him.  He was also waiting for some sign of recognition from the financial potentate, the democracy of the woods being in his blood.