“What sort of partnership would it be?”
“God knows.” For an instant the shrewd eyes leaped into a glint of feeling. “These poor benighted devils suspect the Greeks bearing gifts. Civilization has always come here only to leave its scar. They have been stung once—over oil. God pity the man who seeks to sting them again.”
“You think,” Spurrier responded lightly, as one without personal interest, “they wouldn’t take it kindly?”
Once again the sonorous and kindly voice mounted abruptly to vehemence.
“As kindly, sir, as a wolf bitch robbed, the second time, of her whelps. It’s all a wolf bitch has.”
That evening as he walked slowly homeward with a neighbor whom he had met by the way, Spurrier came face to face with Wharton, the other stranger, and the mountaineer performed the offices of introduction.
The two men from the outer world eyed each other incuriously and parted after an exchange of commonplaces.
When Spurrier separated from his chance companion, the hillsman drawled: “Folks says thet feller’s buyin’ land. God knows what fer he wants hit, but ef he does hone fer hit, hit’s kinderly probable thet hit’s wuth holdin’ on to.”
When the brook trout began to leap and flash Cappeze delegated Glory to act for him as Spurrier’s guide, and as the girl led the way to the likeliest pools, the young, straight-growing trees were not more gracefully slender.