“Um! What direction, Dolf? Didn’t happen to be goin’ out the River Road, did you?” “That’s exactly where I was goin’. Had a errant out that way.” “Take you far, Dolf? So far you couldn’t git back to-night?” “It might, Judge.” “Wa’n’t goin’ far’s Gilder’s, was you—up back of the Company’s Camp Three?” “Goin’ a leetle past there, Judge.” “Um! Know Gilders?” “Calc’late to.” “If you was to see him, Dolf, d’ you figger on stoppin’ for a chat? And if you do, what be you goin’ to talk about?” “I’d mention I hadn’t seen him for a long spell.” “To be sure.” “And I’d mention I seen you to-day.” “Uh-huh. S’pose it would occur to you to say somethin’ to the effect that it looked like business was pickin’ up and stirrin’ times was comin’? Eh? And that fellers with an ax to grind had better git out the grindstone? Eh?” “Come to think of it, I guess I’d make some sich observation.” “And would you kind of speak about the new clothespin-mill? And allude to how the whistle’s always tootin’ for it to shut down on account of somethin’ bustin’?” “It ’u’d be int’restin’ news to Gilders.” “’Twouldn’t be any more ’n nat’ral for you to wonder what was the cause of it? Eh? Might suggest that somebody up his way could explain it. ’Twouldn’t be s’rprisin’, would it?” “Likely to be so,” said Dolf. “G’-by, Dolf,” said Zaanan. “G’-by, Judge,” said Dolf. In ten minutes Dolf was driving a livery rig out the River Road. A twelve-mile ride lay before him, and he did not lag. Some hours later he stopped, tied his horse to a tree by the roadside and plunged into the woods—jack-pine, scrub-oak, underbrush. Fifteen minutes’ scrambling brought him to an insignificant clearing with a log shanty in the middle of it. He stopped cautiously and looked about. Then he called: “Steve! Hey, Steve Gilders!” A man, perhaps forty-five years old, stood by the shanty door. A moment before the space had been empty. He did not seem to come to that spot from anywhere, but simply to be there all at once. He was what our grandmothers would have called a “fine figger” of a man. Upward of six feet two inches he was, and handsome of feature. The handsomeness was marred by a somberness, a sternness of demeanor. The admiration he excited was chilled by the rifle he carried under his arm—and the manner in which he carried it. It explained why Dolf had taken the precaution to call before he ventured near. “What’s wanted?” inquired Gilders. “Zaanan Frame sent me.” The man’s face relaxed. “Then you’re welcome. Come in.” Dolf followed him. “Zaanan sent a message, but I can’t make head or tail to it,” he said. “Probably ’twa’n’t intended you should,” said Gilders.