Wayland said: “Mrs. McFarlane, this is my father. Father, this is Miss Berea McFarlane, of Bear Tooth Springs.”
The elder Norcross shook hands with Mrs. McFarlane politely, coldly; but he betrayed surprise as Berea took his fingers in her grip. At his son’s solicitation he accepted a seat opposite Berea, but refused dessert.
Wayland explained: “Mrs. McFarlane and her daughter quite saved my life over in the valley. Their ranch is the best health resort in Colorado.”
“Your complexion indicates that,” his father responded, dryly. “You look something the way a man of your age ought to look. I needn’t ask how you’re feeling.”
“You needn’t, but you may. I’m feeling like a new fiddle—barring a bruise at the back of my head, which makes a ‘hard hat’ a burden. I may as well tell you first off that Mrs. McFarlane is the wife of the Forest Supervisor at Bear Tooth, and Miss Berea is the able assistant of her father. We are all rank conservationists.”
Norcross, Senior, examined Berrie precisely as if his eyes were a couple of X-ray tubes, and as she flushed under his slow scrutiny he said: “I was not expecting to find the Forest Service in such hands.”
Wayland laughed.
“I hope you didn’t mash his fingers, Berrie.”
She smiled guiltily. “I’m afraid I did. I hope I didn’t hurt you—sometimes I forget.”
Norcross, Senior, was waking up. “You have a most extraordinary grip. What did it? Piano practice?”