The person was tall, thin, slightly stoop-shouldered and certainly well past the age of three-score and ten. His straggling hair and abundant beard, which descended over his chest like a fleecy veil, were as white as snow. The nose was well formed, inclined to Roman, and his gray eyes under the shaggy grizzled brows were of piercing intensity. He grasped a long crooked staff in his right hand, the top rising a foot above his head, and used the stick for a cane in walking. He wore no hat or covering of any kind for his crown, but his attire was a suggestion of a Norfolk coat such as Scout Masters wear. It was buttoned down the front and closed about the waist by a girdle or belt of the same material, which was olive-drab cotton cloth, with two pleats before and behind. Although the garment was well worn it was clean and unfrayed. The trousers of the same kind of cloth reached to the top of the coarse, strong shoes. Under the coat was a dark flannel shirt, though it scarcely showed because of the closed garment and the beard curtain.
“I wonder if he intends to walk over me,” mused Mike, as he met the steady gaze and held his position; “it looks that way.”
A half dozen paces away, however, the old man abruptly halted, stared and remained silent. Mike raised his hand and made a military salute.
“With me compliments and best wishes and many of the same.”
“Try that again, young man,” said the stranger in a mellow voice, “you didn’t do it properly.”
“I did the best I know how,” replied the astonished Mike, “and I was thinking it couldn’t be much improved upon.”
“None the less it is wrong.”
“If ye’ll be after insthructing me it’s mesilf that will try to do you justice.”
“Are you not a Boy Scout?”
“Not just yit, though I’m hoping to honor the Scouts by allowing the same to put my name on their roll.”