“There’s more cattle down the island than we looked for, Nelly,” said he, chewing at a cigar and watching the girl as she cleaned up. “The buyer will be over from East Jordan next week, and then there’ll be doings. What’s more, there’s some big pine in yonder that’s never been cut out. I’m thinkin’ of raftin’ it over to the mill.” “Good idea, if you owned it,” said a strange voice. “But you don’t.” * * * * * Hughie Dunlevy turned, stared, came to his feet with a leap. There at the edge of the trees, his approach unheard, stood the man whom Nelly Callahan had seen in the canoe. He wore nothing but his ragged shirt, the most essential half of a pair of overalls, and canvas shoes. Short, curly red hair crowned a face that was weather-hardened, humorous, strongboned; one glimpsed sparkling gray eyes that could either laugh or glitter, and a wide, generous mouth. Dripping wet as he was, the stranger showed bruises and a cut lip, and a red streak ran across his half-exposed chest. “If you could spare me a bite to eat, young lady, I’d appreciate it!” exclaimed the stranger genially. “Did I scare you folks? Sorry! My boat went down, and I was washed ashore, saw the smoke of your fire, and came for it. Is that a fish mulligan I smell? Then if there’s any left, have pity on a starving man!” Nelly, with a smile at his laughing words, turned to the big pot. Hughie Dunlevy regarded the stranger with a frown on his wide features. “Where’d ye come from? Who are ye?” “Callahan’s my name,” said the stranger, coming forward. “You’re no island Callahan!” said Dunlevy promptly. The other laughed. “No, I haven’t that honor; but our ancestors were kings in Ireland at the same time. I don’t go by that name either; mostly folks call me Hardrock.” “Hardrock Callahan, eh?” exclaimed the girl, not liking the general aspect of Hughie Dunlevy. “Well, I’m Nelly Callahan, and this is my father’s camp, and you’re welcome. Shake hands with Hughie Dunlevy and make yourself comfortable. I’ll have this mulligan hot in a minute, and coffee’s all ready.” Hardrock stepped forward and extended his hand. Dunlevy accepted it, though not with any marked warmth, and for an instant the two men measured each other. “What was that you said when you showed up?” demanded Hughie. “About me not owning this timber?” “Something like that, I guess.” Hardrock Callahan laughed cheerfully. “I happen to own it myself. Oh, coffee ready? Thanks, Miss Callahan--or if I may say so, Miss Nelly! I hate to use the name of Callahan on the Beavers--too many other Callahans here already.” He sat down, turned his back to the scowling, indeterminate Hughie, and sipped the hot coffee. Nelly Callahan did not smile, however, as she put the mulligan pot in the embers. It had come to her that while she was crossing the point, this man must have worked his canoe in to the shore, have dragged it up, and have made camp. And what was this story of owning the timber?