“Why, I——”
He broke off abruptly as they emerged from the thicket into a wide clearing which sloped gently down from the forest to the shores of a beautiful little lake, whose waters, ruffled by the brisk breeze, reflected the riotous crimson and gold of the autumn sunset until it seemed almost like a radiant opal.
A little way down the slope to their right loomed the spreading bulk of a commodious, weatherworn farmhouse, with big, hospitable, chimneys and many small paned windows, each one of which reflected the sunset in flaming crimson until it looked as if the whole house was ablaze.
“Waal, boys,” remarked Cobmore. “Here we be. This is Cranberry Lake, an’ old man Hickey’s house still stands. I reckon you feel like gittin’ a fire started an’ cookin’ grub. It’s nigh onto supper time.”
“You’re right, there,” Fitzgerald said, smacking his lips. “This air has given me such a thundering appetite I could pretty near eat the soles of my shoes.”
The farmer chuckled.
“Ain’t quite that far gone, I expect,” he said. “You got somethin’ a bit tastier than that to fall to on. Let’s git around to the front door.”
The house faced the lake, and on that side was a narrow veranda which ran the full width of the building. As they turned the corner they were surprised beyond measure to see a tall figure rise from the steps and look inquiringly toward them.
The next instant Buckhart gave a sudden exclamation.
“By thunder! If it isn’t Mac! What the mischief are you doing here, old fellow?”