The far-away look that had crept into the old man's eyes vanished, and his voice became gruff and hard.
"Oi've hear-rd av yer doin's in th' timber—av yer killin' th' werwolf in th' midst av her pack—an yer lickin' Moncrossen wid a luk an' a grin—av yer knockin' out Shtromberg wid t'ree blows av yer fisht.
"Ye might carry th' name av a Noo York money-grubber, but yer hear-rt is th' hear-rt av a foightin' McKim—an' yer eyes, an' that smile—th' McKim smile—that's as much a laugh as th' growl av a grizzly—an' more dangerous thin a cocked gun."
The old man paused and filled his pipe, muttering and chuckling to himself. Bill grasped his hand, wringing it in a mighty grip.
"You have guessed it," he said huskily. "My name does not matter. I am a McKim. She was my mother—Eily McKim—and she used to tell me of my uncle—and of you."
"Did she, now? Did she remember me?" he exclaimed. "God bless th' little gur-rl. An' she is dead?" Bill nodded, and Daddy Dunnigan drew a coarse sleeve across his eyes and puffed hard at his short pipe.
"And will you go back with me and work the rest of the winter for Moncrossen?"
The old man remained silent so long that Bill thought he had not heard. He was about to repeat the question when the other laid a hand upon his knee.
"Oi don't have to wor-rk f'r no man, an' Oi'll not wor-rk f'r Moncrossen. But Oi'd cross hell on thin ice in July to folly a McKim wanst more, an' if to do ut Oi must cook f'r Appleton's camp, thin so ut is. Git ye some shleep now whilst Oi loaf down to Burrage's."