“Well, here we are!” exclaimed Mr. Richard Jackson, as he jumped from the front seat and gripped Joe’s hand. There was a smile playing all over his round, genial face, and a twinkle in his eyes. “We got here, you see, safe and sound. Whew! What air!”
Joe felt they were friends already.
“Mr. Grimsby,” Sue ventured, turning to Alice Jackson, by way of presenting him.
“I’m going to call you Joe,” she said frankly, stretching out her gloved hand to him across Sue’s knees.
The moment he had looked into her brown eyes and heard her speak, he knew she was “a dear.” It was evident she was some ten years younger than her husband, a slim, energetic little woman, with a smile that was merry and sincere. He noticed, too, that her dark hair was just turning gray. She was charming—that charm that comes from frankness, intelligence, and refinement.
“I’m going to call you Joe, too,” declared her husband, gripping Joe heartily by both shoulders, “and don’t you forget that my name’s Dick.”
No one would have taken this jolly man of forty-five for the auditor of one of the largest systems of railroads in the country, but he was. He, too, needed a well-earned rest.
Ah, yes—there was another one standing now by the empty buckboard who called him “Joe”—but her small hand lingered in his the longest.
That very night, with big Jim Turner as extra guide, they reached the Upper Ausable and camp.
It did not take Ed, Joe, or Jim Turner long to find out that the Jacksons were used to the woods. They had a camp of their own in northern Canada, where they had fished and hunted for years, but it was too far away for this trip. As for Sue, she was gloriously happy. She went into ecstasies over everything—the beauty of the ponds, the water, the silence, the snug camp, the table of rough boards, and the crackling fire.