"I suppose you know you were thrust upon me!"
"No. I'm very sorry," I said, quite meekly.
While I was desperately wondering what to do or say next, a tall blond man in Park uniform entered the office.
The Superintendent looked quite relieved.
"This is White Mountain, Chief Ranger here. I guess I'll turn you over to him. Look after her, will you, Chief?" And he washed his hands of me.
In the Washington office I had often heard of "White Mountain" Smith. I recalled him as the Government scout that had seen years of service in Yellowstone before he became Chief Ranger at Grand Canyon. I looked him over rather curiously and decided that I liked him very well. His keen blue eyes were the friendliest I had seen since I left West Virginia. He looked like a typical Western man, and I was surprised that his speech had a "down East" tone.
"Aren't you a Westerner?"
"No, I'm a Connecticut Yankee," he smiled. "But we drift out here from everywhere. I've been in the West many years."
"Have you ever been in West Virginia?" I blurted. Homesickness had settled all over me.
He looked at me quickly, and I reckon he saw that tears were close to the surface.