Pop said slowly, "Squatter, sir? I'm afraid there's some mistake. This property—as a matter of fact, this entire planetoid—is mine under Earth land-grant law. Now, if you will be kind enough to explain your presence—"
"Yours!" Sam Wilkes' ruddy countenance darkened with outrage. "Earth land-grant! Bessie, where'd I put that—Oh, here it is! Take a look at this, Mr. Moseley!"
He slapped a strip of parchment into Pop's hand, and Pop unfolded it carefully. Dick looked over his shoulder. One of the curious, six-legged beasts skittered nervously and Bobby started. The rusty-thatched boy who had dismounted from it grinned impishly. He said, "What's the matter, skinny, you scared of him?"
Bobby said, "Of course not!" and watched the animal from the corner of one eye. "What is it?"
"A gooldak. We brought it here from home. Fastest thing on legs. What's your name?"
"Bobby. What's yours? And what do you mean—home?"
"Sam. They call me Junior. Why, home is Mars, of course. Where'd you think?"
That word was being echoed now by Dick.
"Mars! This is a land-grant charter issued by the Martian government! But—but—Pop, show him yours!"
"Don't do nothin' of the sort, son!" chirped Grampaw belligerently. "That there scrip o' his'n is prob'ly fake! Don't explain nothin' to 'em. Jist tell 'em to git!"