Davy was young for his sixteen years, and as slender as a sapling. He had thin, finely drawn features, and eyes that expressed something of the same quality of wistfulness as his sister's. At present he was very ill at ease, but his face showed a certain resoluteness that engaged Jack's liking. The boy shyly produced a pipe that was evidently a recent acquisition, and filled it inexpertly.
Jack's instinct led him to ignore Mary for the present while he made friends with the boy. He knew how. They were presently engaged in a discussion about prairie chicken, in an off-hand, manly tone.
"Never saw 'em so plenty," said Davy. "You only have to climb the hill to bring back as many as you want."
"What gun do you use?" asked Jack.
The boy's eyes gleamed. "My father has a Lefever gun," he said proudly. "He lets me use it."
"So!" said Jack, suitably impressed. "There are not many in the country."
"She's a very good gun," said Davy patronizingly. "I like to take her apart and clean her," he added boyishly.
"I'd like to go up on the prairie with you while I'm here," said Jack. "But I have no shotgun. I'll have to try and put their eyes out with my twenty-two."
This sort of talk was potent to draw them together. They puffed away, ringing all the changes on it. Mary listened apart as became a mere woman, and the hint of a dimple showed in either cheek. When she raised her eyes they fairly beamed on Jack.
Jack knew that the way to win the hearts of the children of the North is to tell them tales of the wonderful world outside that they all dream about. He led the talk in this direction.