“I presume,” said the new-comer, looking about him, “that this is a camp.”
“It is a camp,” said Mr. Archibald.
“The fact is so obvious,” said the man in black, “that it was really unnecessary for me to allude to it. May I ask to be allowed to sit down for a few moments? I am fatigued.”
At this juncture Phil Matlack arrived on the scene. “Well, sir,” said he, “have you any business with anybody here? Who do you wish to see?”
“I have no business,” said the other, “and—”
“And you are a stranger to everybody here?” interrupted Matlack.
“Yes, but I hope—”
“Now then,” said the guide, quickly, “I’ve got to ask you to move on. This is one of Peter Sadler’s camps, and he has strict rules against strangers stoppin’ in any of them. If you’ve lost your way, I’ll tell you that this road, if you don’t turn to the right or the left, will take you straight to Sadler’s, and there’s time enough for you to get there before dark.”
“Mr. Matlack,” exclaimed Mrs. Archibald, who had risen to her feet, “I want to speak to you! It’s a shame,” she said, when the guide had approached her, “to send that man away without even giving him a chance to rest himself. He may be a very respectable person on a walking tour.”
“I guess he is on a walkin’ tour,” said Matlack, “and I guess he’s a regular tramp, and there’s no orders we’ve got that’s stricter than them against tramps.”