Sounds of rather heated argument assailed his ears now. A man’s voice, raised in fretful complaint, was saying—
“I’ve told you often enough that I wouldn’t have a lot o’ strange folk clutterin’ round, pokin’ their noses into what doesn’t belong to ’em, and when I says a thing I mostly means it, as you ought fer to know.”
“Oh, I know it well enough, and I wouldn’t have kept him here if I could have sent him on. But, granfer, he dropped like dead at my feet, and at first I thought he was gone.”
“Not much loss if he had died that I can see. I expect he will be no end of expense to us,” grumbled the man’s voice; and at this Dick considered it high time to make them aware that he was awake and listening.
“I can pay you for all I need, thank you. Although I’m afraid no money can really recompense your granddaughter for her great kindness to me.”
The room was in heavy shadow, and the wood fire gave only a dull red glow, so that Dick Bronson could not see clearly the face of the old man, who turned round with a note of snarling query in his thin voice.
“What are you, anyway? A sheriff’s officer?”
“Nothing half so important. Only just a hard-working man, taking a holiday in the forest; but my horse got stranded in a soft spot, and I had to shoot the poor beast. Then I lost my bearings, and had come almost to the end of my endurance, when I reached this house.”
There was such a ring of sincerity in the simple statement, that Doss Umpey’s suspicions about the good faith of the unknown were allayed to a certain extent, and he asked, in a grudging tone—
“Well, what do you want, anyhow?”