JAKE FULLER
A month after Fuller sailed his son arrived at Santa Brigida, and Dick, who met him on the mole, got something of a surprise when a handsome youth landed and came straight towards him. Jake Fuller was obviously very young, but had an ease of manner and a calm self-confidence that would have done credit to an elderly man of the world. His clothes showed nice taste, and there was nothing about him to indicate the reckless scapegrace Dick had expected.
“You’re Brandon, of course,” he said as he shook hands. “Glad to meet you. Knew you a quarter of a mile off.”
“How’s that?” Dick asked. “You haven’t seen me before.”
“For one thing, you’re stamped Britisher; then you had a kind of determined look, as if you’d come down to yank me right off to the irrigation ditches before I’d time to run loose in the city. Matter of duty to you, and you were going to put it through.”
Dick said nothing, and Jake laughed. “Well, that’s all right; I guess we’ll hit it! And now we’ll put out when you like. I laid in a pretty good breakfast on the boat; I like smart service and a well-chosen menu, and don’t suppose you have either at the camp.”
“They might be better,” Dick agreed, feeling that he had promised Miss Fuller more than he might be able to perform. Then he told a peon to take Jake’s luggage and led the way to a mule carriage at the end of the mole.
“I didn’t expect to ride in a transfer-wagon,” Jake remarked. “Haven’t you any autos yet? If not, I’ll indent for one when the next stock order goes home.”
“Perhaps you had better wait until you see the roads.”
“You’re surely British,” Jake replied. “If you’d been an American, you’d get the car first and make the roads fit in. However, you might tell the ancient dago to get a move on.”