Evidently, the fisherman did not expect an answer, for he straightened up once more and proceeded to whittle. The pitter-patter of the trotting horse, and the clatter of the wheels upon the flinty road, broke rudely upon the familiar little noises of the quiet summer morning. One sidewise glance satisfied Orn that the men in the vehicle were from Auburn prison. He stopped whittling but a moment when Burnett drew up.
"Hello, Orn," called the officer, stentorian-voiced.
"Hello," and the squatter made a polite salute with his stick.
Burnett tossed the reins to the man at his side and climbed to the ground, advancing toward the fisherman.
"This your hut, Skinner?" he interrogated.
Orn Skinner's tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. He endeavored to speak, but apprehension and dread had apparently paralyzed his vocal organs. He hadn't fully realized until that moment how desperate the venture to which he had committed himself and Tess. Between Andy Bishop and this formidable giant from Auburn was but the brave little daughter inside the hut. Would she be able to carry through the hazardous task she'd undertaken?
"You remember me, don't you, Skinner?"
It took several seconds before the fisherman could clear his throat enough to speak.
"Yep," he succeeded at length in muttering. "I remember ye all right.... Ye air Burnett from Auburn, ain't ye?... What do ye want around here?"
Suddenly there came to the powerful officer a wild desire to throttle the heavy-headed squatter. He had a feeling that this man knew more than he could be forced to tell, perhaps.