"Are you the voice from the wilderness?" demanded Hippy scowlingly.
The stranger threw back his head and laughed.
"I confess it. I am the 'seventh year' man. Couldn't resist the temptation to give the pickaninny a scare. Oh, thank you," he added as Nora handed a heaping plate of food to him and a tin cup full of steaming coffee.
"You are a peddler. Is that it?" questioned Emma.
"Heavens, no! I'm a promoter. I promote the well-being of these good mountain folks by giving them sight and by furnishing them with nick-nacks to delight the eye. If you-all are troubled with poor sight I'll be happy to fit you with glasses warranted to make you see double. More coffee, if you please. This is the real article. I think I'll have to make this camp my headquarters."
"This camp will be some miles from here by this time to-morrow," Grace Harlowe informed him.
"So will I. So will I. No bother at all about that. Wash, come here!"
Washington would not budge, so Hippy led him over to the caller.
"Scared you, didn't I, eh? Mebby it is the seventh year, but don't let that bother you. Here! Here's a new harmonica for you. It will make more noise than the one you lost when I whispered in your ear out yonder. Go on now, and behave yourself," he added, giving Wash a playful push. "What can I do for you, folks?"
"I suppose you know this country well?" questioned Grace.