The fisherman never moved and there was the click of a shell thrown into place in the Winchester and a guttural oath from the mountaineer's beard. “Damn ye,” he said hoarsely, raising the rifle. “I'll give ye--” “Don't, Dad!” shrieked a voice from the bushes. “I know his name, hit's Jack--” the rest of the name was unintelligible. The mountaineer dropped the butt of his gun to the ground and laughed. [Illustration: “Don't, Dad!” shrieked a voice from the bushes, 0034] “Oh, air YOU the engineer?” The fisherman was angry now. He had not moved hand or foot and he said nothing, but his mouth was set hard and his bewildered blue eyes had a glint in them that the mountaineer did not at the moment see. He was leaning with one arm on the muzzle of his Winchester, his face had suddenly become suave and shrewd and now he laughed again: “So you're Jack Hale, air ye?” The fisherman spoke. “JOHN Hale, except to my friends.” He looked hard at the old man. “Do you know that's a pretty dangerous joke of yours, my friend--I might have a gun myself sometimes. Did you think you could scare me?” The mountaineer stared in genuine surprise. “Twusn't no joke,” he said shortly. “An' I don't waste time skeering folks. I reckon you don't know who I be?” “I don't care who you are.” Again the mountaineer stared. “No use gittin' mad, young feller,” he said coolly. “I mistaken ye fer somebody else an' I axe yer pardon. When you git through fishin' come up to the house right up the creek thar an' I'll give ye a dram.” “Thank you,” said the fisherman stiffly, and the mountaineer turned silently away. At the edge of the bushes, he looked back; the stranger was still fishing, and the old man went on with a shake of his head. “He'll come,” he said to himself. “Oh, he'll come!”