"Yes, this is Dale Bradford. Dale, this is Mr. Hoover."
"Don't stand out there, John Hoover!" came in a shrill feminine voice from the kitchen of the cabin. "Bring 'em in here right away. I've waited as long as I'm a-going to wait with this supper." And then Mrs. Hoover, a short, fat woman, appeared, her sleeves rolled up, and her hands resting on her hips.
"Thank you, but we've had supper, Aunt Maria," answered Owen, in a voice that was a trifle cold.
"Had supper? Where did you get it?"
"We stopped at the general store down by the depot. We were hungry, and didn't want to wait until we got here."
"My! my! how extravagant—and me waiting with supper all the time. Well, if you don't want anything, I'll put the things away, and save 'em." And without further ceremony the woman bustled about to clear the table.
It had been arranged by John Hoover that Owen and Dale should occupy a small corner room of the house. All the other hands, including Sandy, lived in the other cabins, and had their meals there. But Owen was to consider himself a member of the Hoover household, and his chum was to do likewise.
"I didn't guess you'd want to be parted," said John Hoover. "And the room is plenty big enough for two."
"Yes, we prefer to remain together," answered Owen.
The reception had been a chilling one, and the chill did not wear away when the pair were seated in the plainly furnished living room. The owner of the camp asked both a great number of questions about what they had done in Maine, and seemed very anxious to find out if each could really do a full man's work.