Despite the apparent age of the occupant of the lone hut on the St. Lawrence, he looked hale and hearty. Ralph’s first view had established this. The old man’s skin was pink and clear, his blue eyes bright, and although he stooped, he showed traces of having been a well-built, powerful man in his youth.
“Rap! rap! rap!” went Ralph’s knuckles again.
Then from within: “Wa’al, what cher want?”
“To see whoever lives here,” spoke up Ralph.
“Who are you?”
“A boy that was cast up here to-night on a motor boat that went aground.”
“Wa’al, speak up, can’t cher? What cher want?”
“To sleep here to-night and a chance to dry my clothes,” replied Ralph, greatly puzzled over the brusqueness of his reception.
“You ain’t one of the La Rue gang?”
Ralph’s heart gave a leap. What could this venerable old solitary know of the La Rue gang?