“You did,” declared Rick. “And mother will be glad when she hears it’s all right. Mazie was afraid it was the Black Hand, or something like that after you, Uncle Tod.”
“No, nothing like that!” chuckled the old sailor. “But shucks! Here I go on talking and you folks probably want grub,” he exclaimed. “My manners must have gone prospecting with Lost River. Come on in, Mr. Campbell,” he invited, waving his hand toward the cabin. “We can put you up for the night, and our grub isn’t the worst in the world.”
“Oh, I’m not fussy, but are you sure you can put me up? I did count on keeping on, but it’s getting late and I don’t know this locality. I could push on—”
“No you don’t!” said Mr. Rockford with more enthusiasm than he had shown any time since the newcomers had met him. “You just bunk here. I’ll get something to eat,” and he began to bustle about with an energy and show of cheerfulness that was in strange and pleasant contrast with his former actions.
“Stay and eat hearty,” whispered Uncle Tod. “Sam loves to cook and get up a meal. He’s never happier than when he’s doing it, and it will take his mind off our troubles. Stay, Mr. Campbell. You’re in no great rush; are you?”
“No, I don’t know’s I am.”
“All right, just run your car under the shed there with my old flivver and Esmerelda—that’s the mule. I reckon there’s room for all three. Though as a matter of fact you could leave it in the open—we don’t get any rain to speak of at this season.”
“Well, I’ll just run it under the shed,” said the owner of the car, and this he did, after taking out the boys’ valises and his own overnight bag.
Meanwhile Sam Rockford was in his element, and he actually whistled as he built a fire and started to get supper, for it was now about time for that meal.
“How long since Lost River ceased flowing?” asked Mr. Campbell, as he and the boys sat with Uncle Tod in front of the cabin, while waiting for “grub.”