“Neither does anybody else.  I bought it twenty years ago, under a corporation name.  I was the whole corporation.  Called myself the Wolverine Company.”

“You own the Wolverine property, do you?”

“Yes; ever hear of it?”

“I know where it is.  I’ve been out there trying to get hold of something, but you have the heart of it.”

“Thought you were going to retire,” Orde pointed out.

“The property’s all right, but I’ve some sort of notion the title is clouded.”

“Why?”

“Can’t seem to remember; but I must have come against some record somewhere.  Didn’t pay extra much attention, because I wasn’t interested in that piece.  Something to do with fraudulent homesteading, wasn’t it?”

Orde dropped his oars across his lap to fill and light a pipe.

“That title was deliberately clouded by an enemy to prevent my raising money at the time of the Big Jam, when I was pinched,” said he.  “Frank Taylor straightened it out for me.  You can see him.  As a matter of fact, most of that land I bought outright from the original homesteaders, and the rest from a bank.  I was very particular.  There’s one 160 I wouldn’t take on that account.”

“Well, that’s all right,” said Welton, his jolly eyes twinkling.  “Why the secrecy?”

“I wanted a business for Bob when he should grow up,” explained Orde; “but I didn’t want any of this ‘rich man’s son’ business.  Nothing’s worse for a boy than to feel that everything’s cut and dried for him.  He is to understand that he must go to work for somebody else, and stand strictly on his own feet, and make good on his own efforts.  That’s why I want you to break him in.”

“All right.  And about this partnership?”

“I want you to take charge.  I can’t leave Washington.  We’ll get down to details later.  Bob can work for you there the same as here.  By and by, we’ll see whether to tell him or not.”

The twilight had fallen, and the shores of the river were lost in dusk.  The surface of the water itself shone with an added luminosity, reflecting the sky.  In the middle distance twinkled a light, beyond which in long stretches lay the sombre marshes.

“That’s the club,” said Orde.  “Now, if you disgrace me, you old duffer, I’ll use you as a decoy!”

A few moments later the two men, opening the door of the shooting-box, plunged into a murk of blue tobacco smoke.  A half-dozen men greeted them boisterously.  These were just about to draw lots for choice of blinds on the morrow.  A savoury smell of roasting ducks came from the tiny kitchen where Weber—­punter, keeper, duck-caller and cook—­exercised the last-named function.  Welton drew last choice, and was commiserated on his bad fortune.  No one offered to give way to the guest, however.  On this point the rules of the Club were inflexible.

Luckily the weather changed.  It turned cold; the wind blew a gale.  Squalls of light snow swept the marshes.  Men chattered and shivered, and blew on their wet fingers, but in from the great open lake came myriads of water-fowl, seeking shelter, and the sport was grand.