Next day we rode over to his hut, and smoked some pipes. Wilkins spoke of India, Australia, France, and Italy, but he never mentioned England. Nor did we. Presently, somewhat to our surprise, Hetty Upham cantered into camp. The day happened to be unusually hot, which accounted, perhaps, for her rosy cheeks. She delivered a message to Wilkins, exchanged a few words with us, and galloped off.
"Goes faster than she came," said Ajax.
"Yes," said Wilkins. Then he added, with emphasis: "I don't blame any girl from galloping away from such a hole as this." With a derisive glance he indicated the flies swarming about his pots and pans, the ill-trimmed lamp reeking of petroleum, the rough bunk wherein he slept, the rusty stove. We contrasted these sordid surroundings with the splendours of Silas Upham's front parlour, and then we stared furtively at Wilkins.
About a week later Wilkins supped with us. Warmed by good food and drink, his reserve concerning himself somewhat melted. We learned that he had been but two weeks in Upham's service, that he had worked his passage down the coast from Vancouver to San Francisco.
"And how do you like the Uphams?" said Ajax.
The use of the plural provoked a slight smile.
"Naturally, I don't see much of them," said Wilkins.
He picked up an old photograph album, and began to turn over its pages. Obviously, his thoughts were elsewhere; and the sound of his own voice must have startled him.
"By Jove--it's old Sam!"
He spoke in a whisper, as if to himself.