"Not a great deal. When my friends wrote for me to come, they said good horses were scarce and high-priced out here, and advised me to bring mine. I couldn't leave my dog behind,—could I, old Lion?"
"Who mout your friends be?"
"Mr. and Mrs. Lanman, at North Mills; and Mrs. Lanman's brother,—my boss, as you call him,—Mr. Felton, the surveyor. They came out last year; and last winter they wrote to me, offering me a good chance if I should come. It was in winter; I drove Snowfoot in a cutter, and crossed the Detroit River on the ice just before it broke up. There the sleighing left me; so I sold my cutter, bought a saddle, and made the rest of the journey on horseback. That was rather hard on the dog, but I got the stage-drivers to give him a lift once in a while."
"What did you say your name was?" the old man inquired.
"I don't think I said. But I will say now. My name is Ragdon,—Henry Ragdon. My friends call me Jack."
"And it ain't yer name?"
"O, yes, it is, and yet it isn't! I was brought up to it. My friends like it, and so I keep it."[1]
[1] See "Fast Friends"; also the previous volumes of this series,—"Jack Hazard and his Fortunes," "A Chance for Himself," and "Doing His Best," in which is given a full account of the young surveyor's early life and adventures.
"Wal, Jack,—if you'll rank me with your friends, and le' me call ye so," said the old man, with a cordial grip of his great, flat hand,—"I s'pose we part yer, and say good by. I'll shoulder my tools, and take a cow-path through the woods; you'll find a better road than the one we come by, furder north. Jest keep along the edge of the perairie. I sha'n't forgit this job."
"Nor I," said the young surveyor, with a curious smile.