"Old man Armitage!" Watty said. "And he's come all the way from New York to see the big opal, he says."
There was a rumble of cart wheels, an exclamation and the reverberation of a broad, slow voice out-of-doors. Watty looked through Michael's window.
"Here he is, Michael," he said. "George and Peter are helping him out of Newton's dog-cart. And Archie Cross and Bill Grant are coming along the road a bit behind."
Michael pushed back his seat and pulled the fastenings from his front door. The front door was more of a decoration and matter of form in the face of the hut than intended to serve any useful purpose, and the fastening had never been moved before.
Potch cleared away the litter of the meal while Michael went out to meet the old man. He was walking with the help of a stick, his heavy, colourless face screwed with pain.
"Grr-rr!" he grunted. "What a fool I was to come to this God-damn place of yours, George! What? No fool like an old one? Don't know so much about that.... What else was I to do? Brrr! Oh, there you are, Michael! Came to see you. Came right away because, from what the boys tell me, you weren't likely to slip down and call on me."
"I'd 've come all right if I'd known you wanted to see me, Mr. Armitage," Michael said.
The old man went into the hut and, creaking and groaning as though all his springs needed oiling, seated himself on the sofa, whipped out a silk handkerchief and wiped his face and head with it.
"Oh, well," he said, "here I am at last—and mighty glad to get here. The journey from New York City, where I reside, to this spot on the globe, don't get any nearer as I grow older. No, sir! Who's that young man?"
Mr. Armitage had fixed his eyes on Potch from the moment he came into the hut. Potch stood to his gaze.