“Not me.” The old man stretched out a calloused hand to take the two dollar bills Mr. Livingston offered. “These diggin’s are owned by a hard-fisted hombre by the name o’ Jarrett Walz.”
“You don’t like him?” Mr. Livingston asked, mildly amused at the old-timer.
“Didn’t say so, did I? Walz gives me my grub and a cabin for lookin’ after this place. When you’re pushing eighty and have a bad ticker, you’re not too particular.”
Jack and Mr. Livingston regarded the old man with new interest and respect. Despite shaggy white hair and a weather-beaten face, he did not look more than seventy, for his muscles were firm and his stooping shoulders were powerful.
“My name’s Stony,” the old man volunteered. “I’ll show you where to park.”
Shuffling out of the office, he directed them to the rear of the deep lot.
Old Stony loitered to watch as the Scouts efficiently set about unloading equipment and setting up their tents.
“Nested cooking pans and sleeping bags!” he cackled. “In my day, we used a lard pail and our own backs for a mattress. Anything you’ll be wanting?”
“Nothing, thank you,” Jack assured him.
Old Stony started to leave. Then he halted, hesitated, and said: “See that little cabin yonder? That’s where I flop. It gets kind o’ lonesome sittin’ there alone at night, so if you boys have nothing to do later on, drop by and we can chin.”