HARRY may be considered rash in his immediate acceptance of his Yankee acquaintance as a member of their party, but there are some men who need no letters of recommendation. Obed Stackpole certainly was not a handsome man. He was tall, lean, gaunt in figure, with a shambling walk, and his skin was tough and leathery; but in spite of all there was an honest, manly expression which instantly inspired confidence. Both Harry and Jack liked him, but Dick Fletcher seemed to regard him with instinctive dislike.
“What made you accept that scarecrow into our company?” he asked, when Stackpole had left them to make his own arrangements for leaving the city.
Harry smiled.
“He isn’t a handsome man,” he replied, “but I think he will prove a valuable companion.”
“You took no notice of my objection to him,” said Fletcher, frowning.
“Our company was too small,” returned Harry. “From inquiry I find that parties seldom consist of less than half-a-dozen.”
“I know all about that,” said Fletcher impatiently. “You might have been guided by me.”
“I shall be to some extent,” answered Harry, “but not implicitly.”
“I am going to have trouble with that boy,” thought Fletcher. “Wait till we get on the road.” Aloud he said: “If you had mentioned the matter to me I would have found some one to go with us. You had better tell this Yankee that we haven’t room for him, and I will do it now.”
Fletcher’s persistence only aroused vague suspicions in Harry’s breast. He felt glad that Stackpole was neither a friend nor likely to prove a confederate of Dick Fletcher, and was resolved to hold on to him.