In ten minutes Mr. Mackworth reëntered the car, where dinner had just been announced, with the much discussed Sam close behind. The new arrival carried in one hand a rope tied fibre suit case, crushed and worn. In the other was a short rifle and a cartridge belt. His teeth were set on a short, nicked, black pipe. Frank and Phil were shocked. Aside from the rifle and belt, nothing suggested the old time hunter. And the man, although probably seventy years old, was in no sense “grizzled.” He did not even wear the greasy old sombrero with which all western veterans of fiction are crowned.
“Gentlemen, let me introduce Sam Skinner,” exclaimed Mr. Mackworth.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Sam, who in the books should have grunted or said “howdy.” Then, turning to Mr. Mackworth, Sam continued: “Colonel, you’re goin’ to find a lot of snow up there in the Elk River Valley Mountains. Did you bring your snowshoes?”
“Snow ain’t goin’ to bother us this time,” said Mr. Mackworth, significantly. “We thought we’d come early and maybe scare up a few grizzlies.”
“You’ll do that, I reckon,” exclaimed Sam, “but the best time to tackle the timber line is September. There’s a power o’ snow in the gullies just now.”
By this time Jake Green had relieved the westerner of his rifle and box, and Sam had removed his hat and pipe.
“Here’s the same old hat, Colonel, you gave me four years ago and good as new.”
He held out a limp, cloth traveling hat that had probably cost a pound in London. Mr. Mackworth apparently did not recall the incident and Sam continued: “Don’t you remember the day I lost my hat over on Avalanche Creek, near Herchmer Mountain; the day we thought we had Old Indian Chief at last?”
Mr. Mackworth’s eyes lit up.