“Why, Wayne—it is—yes, it is Vic Potter!”
Wayne started toward the door, meeting the trapper at the threshold.
“Welcome, old friend!” he said, heartily. “Welcome!”
There was a hearty greeting and hand-shaking all round, as he entered.
“I’m powerful glad tew see ye,” he exclaimed, as he took a seat. “I got a notion thet mebbe ye’d like tew see Vic’s ugly pictur’ ag’in, so I jist extended my travels a little, an’ here I be! Is this here youngster yours, Marion?”
“Yes,” was the smiling reply, as the trapper took the little fellow from his father’s arms. “And what do you think it’s name is, Vic?”
“Hain’t no idee,” said the trapper, reflectively. “Wayne, mebbe, arter its father.”
“No,” said Marion, “we have named him Victor.”
The old hunter looked up with a delighted grin.
“Did ye now? Wal, thet’s suthin’ I didn’t expect. He’s a fine little fellow, an’ I ’spect tew have the pleasure of l’arnin’ him how tew trap beavers one of these days.”