When Matt Larson arrived he was not at all what Jack expected he would be.  In the first place, he was not like one’s uncle.  Jack had forgotten that his mother had frequently told him that her little brother Matt was only six years old when she was married, and had acted “page” at the wedding.  So to-day Matt, who was only twenty-five, looked more like a big brother than an uncle.  His eyes, however, were as shrewd as those of a man of forty, and already a fine dusting of grey hairs swept away from each temple.  His skin was swarthy from many winds and suns, his nose determined, and his mouth as kind and sweet as Jack’s own mother’s, but his hands and shoulders were what spoke of his pioneer life.  There was something about those strong, clean fingers, those upright shoulders, that made Jack love him at sight.

Matt Larson never dressed like anyone else.  Years of exploring the wilds had got him so accustomed to heavy boots and leather knee gaiters, that he never seemed to be able to discard them when he touched town life, which, truth to tell, was as seldom as possible.  His suit of heavy, rough tweeds, blue flannel shirt and flowing black silk handkerchief for a tie, never seemed to leave his back, and no one recollected having ever seen him wear a hat.  A small, checked cloth cap, flung on the very back of his head, was his only head covering, rain or shine.

“No, don’t call me ‘uncle,’” he laughed, as Jack greeted him with the respect the relationship demanded.  “You and I are just going to be pals.  All hands up north call me Larry—­I suppose it’s short for Larson—­so it’s Larry to you, isn’t it, old man?”

“Yes, Larry,” replied Jack, with all his heart warming to this extraordinarily handsome, genial relative, “and I think we will be pals, all right,” he continued.

“No ‘think’ about it; it’s a dead sure fact!” asserted Matt Larson, gripping Jack’s hand with those splendid, sturdy fingers of his.  Then, turning abruptly to his dunnage bags, gun cases, and the general duffle of the “up-norther,” he extracted therefrom a most suspiciously-shaped russet leather case, and handing it to Jack, said:  “That’s yours, boy, never to be used except in emergency, but always to be kept in the pink of condition, ready for instant action.”

Jack’s poor, weak eyes fairly danced; it was a beautiful new revolver.

“But, unc—­I mean, Larry—­why do we take revolvers on a fur-trading expedition?” he asked.

Matt Larson shot a swift glance at him, answering quietly, “There are other things up north besides furs.”

“Do you mean desperadoes?” questioned Jack.

“Well,” hesitated his uncle, “perhaps I do; perhaps I mean other things, too.”  And that was all Jack could get him to say on the subject.  But the boy was very proud of his “gun,” and a little curious as to just why his uncle had given it to him, so that night, when they were alone a moment, he said:  “Larry, that shooter is—­bully!  It’s great to have it.  I’d rather have it at my hip than be in a position sometime to wish I had it.”