An old man in leggings and corduroys came stumping along the path; His Highness heard him coming and turned his keen head. Then he went and stood in front of his mistress, calm, inquisitive, dangerous. "Mornin', miss," said the keeper; "I guess you must be one of our folks." "I am staying at the club-house," she said, smiling, and sitting up on the grass. "I'm old Peter, one o' the guards," he said. "Fine mornin', miss, but a leetle bright for the fish--though I ain't denyin' that a small dark fly'd raise 'em; no'm. If I was sot on ketchin' a mess o' fish, I guess a hare's-ear would do the business; yes'm. I jest passed Mr. Langham down to the forks, and I seed he was a-chuckin' a hare's-ear; an' he riz 'em, too; yes'm." "How long have you been a keeper here?" she asked. "How long, 'm? Waal, I was the fustest guard they had; yes'm. I live down here a piece. They bought my water rights; yes'm. An' they give me the job. The president he sez to me, 'Peter,' he sez, jest like that--'Peter, you was raised here; you know all them brooks an' rivers like a mink; you stay right here an' watch 'em, an' I'll do the squar' by ye,' he sez, jest like that. An' he done it; yes'm." "So you knew the president, then?" she asked, in a low voice. "Knew him?--_him_? Yes'm." The old man laughed a hollow, toothless laugh, and squinted out across the dazzling river. "Knew him twenty year, I did. A good man, and fair at that. Why, I've seen him a-settin' jest where you're settin' this minute--seen him a hundred times a-settin' there." "Fishing?" she said, in an awed voice. "Sometimes. Sometimes he was a-drinkin' out o' that silver pocket-pistol o' his'n. He got drunk a lot up here; but he didn't drink alone; no'm. There wasn't a stingy hair in his head; he--" "Do you mean the president?" she said, incredulously, almost angrily. "Him? Yes'm. Him an' Colonel Hyssop an' Major Brent; they had good times in them days." "You knew the president _before_ his marriage," she observed, coldly. "Him? He wasn't never married, miss!" said the old man, scornfully. "Are you sure?" she asked, with a troubled smile. "Sure? Yes'm. Why, the last time he was up here, three year come July Fourth, I seen him a-kissin' an' a-huggin' of old man Dawson's darter--" She was on her feet in a flash. The old man stood there smiling his senile smile and squinting out across the water, absorbed in his garrulous reminiscence. "Yes'm; all the folks down to the village was fond o' the president, he was that jolly and free, an' no stuck-up city airs; no'm; jest free and easy, an' a-sparkin' the gals with the best o' them--" The old man laughed and crossed his arms under the barrel of his shot-gun. "Folks said he might o' married old man Dawson's darter if he'd lived. I dun'no'. I guess it was all fun. But I hear the gal took on awful when they told her he was dead; yes'm." VI