His head was sparsely covered with iron-gray hair and his thin colorless lips scarcely deviated an eighteenth of an inch from his mouth, except to answer yes or no. He was exceptionally slight of build, but still, one seemed to gather a suggestion of muscularity about him.
At all events, he was a source of interest to the two boys, notwithstanding his disinclination to talk to them.
He had come from the kitchen bearing a steaming, savory pot of coffee. At that moment, Ol’ Pop Burrows was relating all the events and happenings that had taken place around while Uncle Jeb was East at Temple Camp. He remarked quite casually that he had done a “fair to middlin’” business in the little Inn that previous summer.
“Gets better every year,” he said. “Expect to take in more’n ever this year; yes, sir; it gets better every year,” he repeated more to himself than to his listeners.
Artie was gazing with rapt attention at this old timer, but Westy’s gaze was centered on Ollie. It had been centered there ever since the conversation started, for the observing Westy had caught a faint expression of real human interest on the stony countenance of Ollie Baxter. It was barely perceptible, but Westy saw, and having seen remembered....
The sun was now well out of its hiding-place behind that gigantic curtain of rock, and the dew was glistening in its crags and crevices like so many millions of precious diamonds.
THEY WERE GAZING IN AWE AND ADMIRATION AT THIS SCENIC WONDER.
Uncle Jeb, Westy and Artie had bid farewell to Ol’ Pop Burrows and his retinue (Ollie) and turned their steps still further westward.
Their equipage consisted of two old mules that carried their week’s supply and baggage—and themselves.