Wade and his party descended, attended by an obsequious porter laden with bags, and in a moment Casey was shaking hands.
"And so this is your country!" said Mrs. Wade eying her surroundings rather dubiously. In her heart she was appalled at the prospect of passing several weeks in such a place.
"Well, some of it isn't mine," he laughed. "I wish it were. This is only the makings, Mrs. Wade. Wait a few years. Now, here's what we do. We have dinner at the hotel. Afterward we drive out to the ranch where you are all to stay."
Wade and his wife protested. They couldn't think of it. Clyde said nothing. Casey appealed to her.
"What do you say Miss Burnaby? Will you brave the discomforts of a shack in the dry belt?"
"I'm in the hands of my friends," she laughed.
"That includes me," said Casey. "Everything's fixed for you. This is my stamping ground, and I'm boss. What I say goes." He introduced Mr. Quilty, who was hovering in the background, and chuckled as that garrulous gentleman proceeded to unwind an apparently endless welcome.
"I like him," Clyde whispered.
"Pure gold," said Casey, and created a diversion. He helped Quilty deposit the bags in the station.
"Thon's a fine gyurrl," said the latter, with a jerk of his thumb toward the platform."