I knew loons, for I had seen and heard them on lakes in our own country. Probably the boy had never been in very lonely places. How I wished I could tell him that those were merely two old gossipy daddy loons accompanying their mates to their respective home bays on the lake. They were shrieking the news of the day to each other. Some fish ducks had been trying to settle near them and they had been biting at them and trying to drive them away. Then one Mrs. Loon had lost one of her downy young loonies. She blamed Mr. Red Fox from Merry-Tongue River—and what a blessing it was that there were so few campers about. Their beloved lake was really quite quiet with the settlers only.
They liked solitude, they did, and they yelled till the boy was nearly crazy and whipped his fingers in his ears.
How queer! The average boy likes noise and he had better get his ears unstopped for the big man was coming up the hill.
I tried to warn the boy, but he did not understand me and had to fly into another spasm of fright when the big man touched him on the shoulder.
He was a strapping middle-aged man in corduroys and cowboy hat with holes punched in it. His face was brown and kind and his eyes were black and piercing.
These eyes were fixed on the boy in an extraordinary manner. That boy meant something to him in a heart way. His eyes did not falter, but his mouth trembled slightly. Suddenly he held out both hands, "Welcome to Devering Farm, my lad."
My pale-eyed boy put both his slim white hands into the man's big brown ones. "You're Mr. Devering, of course—my father's friend."
"And you are Dallas Duff—my boy, I have longed for this day."
"That's very kind in you, Sir," said young Dallas, but the man had turned suddenly to me.
His eyes were quite misty now and I am sure he could not see me very well, though he said feelingly, "And you, Pony, welcome too. I haven't seen you since the day of the Cobourg Races."