“Sure,” said Sandy, ignoring a sudden quaking at the pit of his stomach, and blowing out an elaborate whiff of smoke. “Sure, I c’n tell you all about him.”
CHAPTER XVIII
If the orders issued from headquarters (viz. P. D. McPherson) had been implicitly obeyed, the life of the newspaper man would have been most uncomfortable. Even as it was, he was prudent enough to give the house a wide berth. “Dunc” Mallison was fond of fishing, and his assignment was in the nature of a vacation for him. He possessed a “dinky” little flivver, whose front seat turned back on hinges, transforming the interior into a tolerably comfortable bed, a la Pullman. Scouting along the banks of the Ghost River, which bounded one side of the O Bar O ranch, the newspaper man found an ideal place for a camp, not far from the cave where Cheerio painted of a Sunday in secret.
Though “Dunc” fished the greater part of the day, he nevertheless dispatched bulletins to his paper in town, and began work on a feature story concerning P. D., the mysterious Cheerio, Hilda McPherson, “beautiful daughter of the Chess Champion and famous rancher,” Sandy, the wise young son and heir of O Bar O, and the various other folk who made up that temperamental ranch. The reporter depended not upon personal interviews with P. D. himself after that first explosive-forced session, through the medium of the evidently belligerent Hilda. Sandy, the guileless and the garrulous, himself interested in the attractions of the Ghost River canyon, was a mine of information upon which the reporter drew at length. Sandy was unable to resist the cigarette case, nor did the resulting tumult in his stomach of that first day’s indulgence prevent his appearance at the newspaper man’s camp and the reindulgence in the noxious weed, which his father had once vehemently declared was “purely poisonous.”
Besides Sandy, Mallison had made the acquaintance of Cheerio. The latter, on his way to his “cave studio,” had paused at the sight of the reporter, fishing in the forbidden waters of the Ghost River. Now P. D. had nailed at the Bridge on the Banff Road, large signs, warning all aspiring fishermen to keep away from the Ghost River, and these prominent notices were signed “P. D. McPherson, Fish and Game Warden.” Cheerio, an employee of the O Bar O, was puzzled for a moment what to do in the circumstances, but the triumphant smile of the reporter as he held up three shining-bodied trout, disarmed the Englishman, who grinned back in sympathetic response, and a moment later was sitting on the bank beside the trespasser, filling his pipe from his old rubber pouch.
All of that quiet Sunday morning, the two fished and smoked, and though their conversation practically consisted of monosyllabic remarks about the water or the possibility of there being a pool farther up the river where their chances might be even better and grunts of satisfaction or exclamations of delight when something nibbled or bit at the end of the lines, almost unconsciously a quiet feeling of comradeship grew up between them, and each took the measure of the other and knew him for a kindred spirit.
In the middle of the afternoon, they counted with pride the results of the day’s work. Cheerio made a “rock stove” and built a fine bonfire in it, while Mallison cleaned and prepared the fish. While the bacon was spluttering upon the pan, Sandy came down through the bush, and squatting down before the reporter’s improvised table of an upturned suit case, he sniffed the odour of frying bacon hungrily and said vehemently, as his hands rested upon his stomach, “Oh, boy!” Mallison was an excellent cook, and Cheerio and Sandy were excellent eaters and they did justice to the fare set before them by the camper.
After the meal, the three “chinned,” as Sandy expressed it, until the deepening of the sun glow showed the end of the approaching day, and Sandy’s drowsy head slipped back upon the grass and his questions came irregularly and presently not at all. Then Cheerio dumped his pipe, shook the half-asleep boy, and said:
“Come on, old man. Time to get back,” and Sandy sat up with a start, rubbed his eyes, yawned, and unwillingly arose and moved toward Silver Heels, whose bridle had slipped down the slender trunk of the tree to which it had been loosely tied.
At the ranch house, the nightly games proceeded. Sometimes a game would end with a single night’s playing; at other times a game would drag along for a week.