The party had another subject of thought the next moment, however. Neale was just setting up the tripod, and Sammy was scurrying about for dry wood for the fire to be built under it, when a tall and roughly dressed man broke through the brush into the open patch of turf on which the party was preparing camp, and at once hailed them:
“Hey, you! what are ye doing here, I’d like to know?”
Neale took it upon himself to reply—and he did not feel very pleasant about it. The man did not speak in a nice way.
“I don’t know that it’s any of your affair,” the boy said quietly; “but we are just preparing lunch.”
“Oh, you be?” snarled the fellow. “Wal, by jinks! ye ben’t neither! We don’t want no ortermobile parties here. Get out!”
“Do you own this land?” asked Neale, his voice shaking.
“Never mind him. Come away—do!” cried Ruth to Neale, while she retreated to the car, dragging the hamper with her.
“I hate to do that,” said the boy, who was very angry. “I don’t believe he has any right to send us away. We’re doing no harm.”
“Ye air trespassin’,” declared the man. “Going to build a fire, too, was ye? That’s against the law, anyway.”
“To build a campfire?” demanded Neale, quickly. “I guess not. And you’ve got to prove trespass.”