“The old fellow allus wants to be introduced to strangers,” he explained; “good thing he didn’t catch you spyin’ up there; he might ’a’ turned savage. Unsaddle your pony, now, and stake her on that grass patch yender; then come in.” Fred obeyed.
“What’s yer name, boy?” the old man asked rather abruptly, as Fred returned.
“Fred—Fred Benton.”
“Sounds honest,” was the rejoinder; “come in and set down while I stir up the fire and get a flapjack fryin’; you won’t git pies and cakes here, you know.”
“I’m not used to them; but, here, let me help you, mister.”
“Don’t mister me, boy; call me Uncle Dave, if ye want to. There ain’t much to help about; but ye might git some water in that pail, and chop a bit of wood. It’ll hurry things.”
“All right,” returned Fred, picking up a brass pail that stood on a rude bench along the wall. By the time he had returned with the water and wood, the mountaineer had his batter ready. While the bake oven was heating on the fire, he stepped to a kind of box that he had built over the creek and brought out something wrapped in a damp cloth. He unrolled it on the table and showed two dressed sage hens. It took but a few strokes of his hunting knife to carve them for frying, and then Fred was given the task of tending the chickens while the old man baked the bread and made the coffee.
A rude table was set with tin dishes. The food was spread on it,—a dish of mountain berries, with some cream and sugar, being added to the hot bread and coffee and the fried chicken.
“This is a real feast,” said Fred.
“Wal, let’s give thanks for it,” was the quiet response, and they bowed their heads while the old man said a simple grace. “Now be at home, boy,” he added.