A man, perhaps forty-five years old, stood by the shanty door. A moment before the space had been empty. He did not seem to come to that spot from anywhere, but simply to be there all at once. He was what our grandmothers would have called a “fine figger” of a man. Upward of six feet two inches he was, and handsome of feature. The handsomeness was marred by a somberness, a sternness of demeanor.
The admiration he excited was chilled by the rifle he carried under his arm—and the manner in which he carried it. It explained why Dolf had taken the precaution to call before he ventured near.
“What’s wanted?” inquired Gilders.
“Zaanan Frame sent me.”
The man’s face relaxed. “Then you’re welcome. Come in.”
Dolf followed him. “Zaanan sent a message, but I can’t make head or tail to it,” he said.
“Probably ’twa’n’t intended you should,” said Gilders.
“Anyhow,” Dolf said, “Zaanan he told me to come a-drivin’ out here and say to you that fellers with a ax to grind had better git their grindstone out; and that business was pickin’ up and stirrin’ times was ahead; and that the new clothespin-mill was havin’ trouble with its machinery and somebody up this here way might be able to explain what was the matter. Don’t seem like much of a message to drive twelve miles to deliver.”
“Huh! Goin’ right back?”
“Zaanan acted like he wanted me to stay till mornin’.”