"Glad to see you, Mr. Nichols. Thought you were never comin'," he jerked out.
"I walked most of the way from Pickerel River. Something went wrong, with the 'Lizzie.'"
"Oh—er—'Lizzie'. The flivver! I couldn't send my own car. I've got only one down here and I might need it."
"It doesn't matter in the least—since I'm here."
"Sit down, Mr. Nichols," went on McGuire indicating a chair. "You've been well recommended by Mr. Sheldon. I talked to him yesterday over long distance. He told you what I wanted?"
"Something. Not much," said Peter with a view to getting all the information possible. "You wanted a forester——?"
"Er—er—yes, that's it. A forester." And then he went on haltingly—"I've got about twenty thousand acres here—mostly scrub oak—pine and spruce. I've sold off a lot to the Government. A mess of it has been cut—there's been a lot of waste—and the fire season is coming around. That's the big job—the all-the-year job. You've had experience?"
"Yes—in Russia. I'm a trained woodsman."
"You're a good all-round man?"