“Yes, my son, when the country was an unexplored wilderness.”
While they talked, the road had been running about among the trees in an inquisitive way, as if it were hunting for birds’ nests; and now it crossed a small clearing where there was a brown cottage.
“This is Mr. Arnesten’s ranch,” said Mr. Rowe, drawing the reins.
“I see the camp, I see it!” cried Kirke, standing up in the wagon. “There are three—yes, four—tents, and a shed besides.”
“Hop Kee sleeps in the shed,” said Mr. Rowe. “Ah, here comes Mr. Arnesten from the spring. Good-morning, Mr. Arnesten. Can you bring back my horses from the camp and feed them?”
The Swede nodded respectfully, and having set down his two pails of water, plodded along in his clumsy shoes behind the party.
“Look, Weezy, they’ve carried the table out-of-doors under the live-oaks,” exclaimed Molly, holding Zip by the collar. “We shall have a regular gypsy dinner.”
“I hope dinner is ready,” said Weezy, in a flutter of expectancy. “I’m ’most starved.”
Molly was gazing about her with an air of keen disappointment.
“Where can Paul and Pauline be, Kirke? I thought they’d be looking out for us.”