“No, not much doing,” he said at last. “But that stranger with your Harrison—I think I know him. Unless I’m much mistaken, he’s a certain lumber dealer of Montreal whom I know very well. Looks as if Harrison was trying to make his sale on the spot.”
And Mr. Jackson put away the glasses, rose to his feet, looked about for a moment, and then walked coolly toward the camp.
Tom gave a cry of protest and then jumped up and followed, and the whole party came after. It happened that nobody noticed them until they were almost at the shore. Harrison was talking earnestly to his companion, looking the other way, until he chanced to turn and beheld the eight advancing figures.
He started forward, uttering an exclamation; and then his eye fell on Tom, and he stopped short again. His face was almost livid.
“What—?” he began, blusteringly; but Mr. Jackson paid not the slightest heed to him. He walked up to the strange man, who was looking surprised, and held out his hand cordially.
“How are you, Archer?” he said. “What are you up here in the woods for—business or pleasure?”
“Why, Jackson, man!” exclaimed the other, after an amazed stare. “You’re the last person I thought of seeing here. I heard you were sick. Pleasure, eh? I guess we’re both here for the same thing. But you’re too late for once, Matt. I’ve made the deal.”
“Not so you can’t break it, I hope,” returned Mr. Jackson, smiling. “For this fellow has no right whatever to any of this walnut timber.”
At this Harrison recovered himself.
“No right to it?” he snarled. “We’ll see about that! Who are you, anyway? Why, this boy here admitted that I had the right of it, and he saw all the papers.”