“My name is Rodger Rainbolt—who are you?”
“Solomon Strange, my lord,” the man replied, boastfully. “I am just from ‘Merry England’ across the water, the water.”
“A foreigner,” replied the ranger; “and what brings you here, Mr. Strange?”
“Ho! ho! ho! my lord,” he laughed, with an imbecile leer; “a love for the chase brings me here. In Merry England across the water, I was game-keeper to Oliver Cromwell. Do you know you look so much like my lord Oliver, that I can’t help calling you my lord? Surely, you are some relation to him, to him, my lord.”
“None at all,” replied the ranger, much amused; “but you are an aged man to have lived in Cromwell’s time.”
“So I am, so I am, my lord; but the swiftest that ever came from the land of the Orient—the swiftest of all save your half-brother the Lightning’s bolt.”
“Crazy,” muttered the scout, to himself, “crazy as a loon.” Then he said aloud:
“You are a wonderful man, Solomon Strange.”
“So I am, so I am, my lord Oliver—Thunderbolt, I mean; and I can read the past and future to you, my lord, like an open book, an open book.”
“Then perhaps you can tell me where those are I seek?” said the ranger, humoring his crazy whims.