“If you could spare me a bite to eat, young lady, I’d appreciate it!” exclaimed the stranger genially. “Did I scare you folks? Sorry! My boat went down, and I was washed ashore, saw the smoke of your fire, and came for it. Is that a fish mulligan I smell? Then if there’s any left, have pity on a starving man!”
Nelly, with a smile at his laughing words, turned to the big pot. Hughie Dunlevy regarded the stranger with a frown on his wide features.
“Where’d ye come from? Who are ye?”
“Callahan’s my name,” said the stranger, coming forward.
“You’re no island Callahan!” said Dunlevy promptly. The other laughed.
“No, I haven’t that honor; but our ancestors were kings in Ireland at the same time. I don’t go by that name either; mostly folks call me Hardrock.”
“Hardrock Callahan, eh?” exclaimed the girl, not liking the general aspect of Hughie Dunlevy. “Well, I’m Nelly Callahan, and this is my father’s camp, and you’re welcome. Shake hands with Hughie Dunlevy and make yourself comfortable. I’ll have this mulligan hot in a minute, and coffee’s all ready.”
Hardrock stepped forward and extended his hand. Dunlevy accepted it, though not with any marked warmth, and for an instant the two men measured each other.
“What was that you said when you showed up?” demanded Hughie. “About me not owning this timber?”
“Something like that, I guess.” Hardrock Callahan laughed cheerfully. “I happen to own it myself. Oh, coffee ready? Thanks, Miss Callahan—or if I may say so, Miss Nelly! I hate to use the name of Callahan on the Beavers—too many other Callahans here already.”