At this point there was the sound of laughter outside, and Ross laid aside his pencil and pad.
"Sandy," he muttered, listening.
To his surprise it was not Sandy whom the opening door revealed, but Lon and Waymart, both in unprecedented high spirits.
"We left Sandy snorin’," Waymart volunteered. "He and Uncle Jake ought to bunk in together. Lon, show Ross how Sandy talks in his sleep."
Weston sat down, leaned his head back against the logs, gave one or two passes through his hair, which left it arranged like Sandy’s with a lock falling over his forehead; and in an instant, although Weston was dark and Sandy fair, an excellent imitation of the latter mumbled and talked and snored against the logs. Weston accurately and easily imitated the voice and manner of Sandy with his laugh and every facial characteristic. Even Weimer rolled over in his bunk and laughed. Next, Weston, carried out of himself by an appreciative audience, imitated Waymart, the sheep-herder at Dry Creek, and finally Ross himself, and did it all with amazing success.
Ross, convulsed with laughter, rocked back and forth on his box. It was the first real fun he had encountered since leaving Pennsylvania. It did not seem possible that this Weston was the same half-sullen, wholly silent man whom he had nursed at the stage camp.
Ross sat opposite the window in front of which Weston was performing; and finally, just as Waymart had called for an imitation of Weimer, the boy, glancing up, encountered Sandy’s face outside the dirty pane. It remained there but an instant while Sandy took the measure of the performer, but that instant was enough to show Ross the full expression of which he had caught glimpses before, and which revealed the side of his character that Sandy usually concealed. His blue eyes glinted angrily. His thin lips, tightly closed, wore a cruel expression, while every feature clearly showed a malignant disapproval of Weston’s methods of entertainment.
The laugh died in Ross’s throat; but the next instant the door swung open and Sandy entered, gay and careless–except as to eyes. They still glinted.
"Thought ye’d shook me, didn’t ye?" he asked with a grin. "Wall, this racket would bring a feller up from his grave, to say nothin’ of a little snooze."
He pushed a box over on its side, and sat astride it; and at once the atmosphere in the cabin changed, and became frigid, despite the newcomer’s gaiety. Weston slunk back to his seat, and all Ross’s urging proved ineffectual to draw him out of his shell again. Waymart’s face also lost its good humor.