“I drove this man over to Hounson’s place,” resumed the camp-keeper, as he saw that all the baggage was piled in the pung. “This man Hounson keeps what he calls a hunters’ camp, but shucks! It’s nothing more than a sort of hotel in the woods. Some hunters do put up there, but none of the better sort.
“The gentlemen who own the three camps you’re going to tried to buy up Hounson’s place, as they didn’t like him and his crowd around here, but he wouldn’t sell. That’s where I took this Jersey man who complained of the cold. Kept rubbing his ears, and one of ’em was chawed, just as if some wild critter had him down and chawed him. ’Course I didn’t say anything about it, as I thought maybe it might be a tender subject with him. But I left him at Hounson’s.”
“Did he say what his name was?” asked Tom, but he only asked to gain time to think over what he had heard, for he was sure he knew who the man with the “chawed” ear was.
“No, he didn’t tell me his name, and I didn’t ask him,” Sam said. “Whoa there!” he called to his horses, for they showed an impatience to be off.
“Some folks are sort of delicate about giving out their names,” went on the guide when the steeds were quieted, “and as I’m a sort of public character, being the stage driver, when there’s one to drive, I didn’t feel like going into details. So I just asked him where he wanted to go, and he told me. Outside of that, and a little talk about the weather, him remarking that he come from Jersey, that’s all the talk we had.
“But maybe you boys know him,” he went on, as a thought came to him. “He was from Jersey, and so are you. Do you happen to know who he is?” he asked.
“We couldn’t say—for sure,” spoke Tom, which was true enough.
“Well, maybe you’ll get a chance to see him,” went on Sam Wilson. “Hounson’s isn’t far from your first camp, where we’re going to head for in a minute or so. You could go over there. You probably will have to, anyhow, if you want your mail, for the only postoffice for these parts is located there. And you’ll probably see your man.
“To tell you the truth, I didn’t take much of a notion to the feller. He was too sullen and glum-like to suit me. I like a man to take some interest in life.”
“Didn’t this man do that?” asked Tom, as he stowed his gun away on the straw-covered bottom of the pung.