"Good-evening," said the writer. "I hope my horses are not in your way."
"Sure not," said Lorry as he loosened a pack-rope.
He took off the packs and lugged them to the veranda. The tired horses rolled, shook themselves, and meandered toward the spring.
"I'm Bronson. My daughter is with me. We are up here for the summer."
"My name is Adams," said Lorry, shaking hands.
"The ranger up here. Yes. Well, I'm glad to meet you, Adams. My daughter and I get along wonderfully, but it will be rather nice to have a neighbor. I heard you ride by, and wanted to explain about my horses."
"That's all right, Mr. Bronson. Just help yourself."
"Thank you. Dorothy—my daughter—has been under the weather for a few days. She'll be up to-morrow, I think. She has been worrying about our using your corral. I told her you would not mind."
"Sure not. She's sick, did you say?"
"Well, over-tired. She is not very strong."