'HELLO, YOUNKER! what in thunder yer tryin' to make?'
Johnny Brainerd paused and looked up, not a little startled by the strange voice and the rather singular figure which stood before him. It was a hunter in half civilized costume, his pants tucked into his immense boot tops, with revolvers and rifles at his waist, and a general negligent air, which showed that he was at home in whatever part of the world he chose to wander.
He stood with his hand in his pocket, chewing his quid, and complacently viewing the operations of the boy, who was not a little surprised to understand how he obtained entrance into his shop.
'Stopped at the house to ax whar old Washoe Pete keeps his hotel,' replied the stranger, rightly surmising the query which was agitating him, 'and I cotched a glimpse of yer old machine. Thought I'd come in and see what in blazes it war. Looks to me like a man that's gwine to run by steam.'
'That's just what it is,' replied the boy, seeing there was no use in attempting to conceal the truth from the man.
'Will it do it?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Don't think you mean to lie, younker, but I don't believe any such stuff as that.'
'It don't make any difference to me whether you believe me or not,' was the quiet reply of the boy; 'but if you will come inside and shut the door, and let me fasten it, so that there will be no danger of our being disturbed, I will soon show you.'
These two personages, so unlike in almost every respect, had taken quite a fancy to each other. The strong, hardy, bronzed trapper, powerful in all that goes to make up the physical man, looked upon the pale, sweet-faced boy, with his misshapen body, as an affectionate father would look upon an afflicted child.