“My word!” ejaculated Hal sotto voce. “Isn’t he a fine old cutthroat!”
Which uncomplimentary description seemed very appropriate to the rest. The man was short, stocky and wide of shoulder. A pair of rusty black trousers, a faded blue pea-jacket and a cheap gingham shirt comprised the bulk of his attire. But it was the countenance that had prompted Hal’s simile. The face was wrinkled and seamed and of the hue of leather, and a straggling brown beard covered the lower half of it. The nose was hooked and crooked and a pair of light colored eyes, which might have been gray or green, gleamed brightly at the group by the tent. The eyebrows were heavy and came together over the nose. On his head was an old felt hat, the front brim pulled down. A ragged mustache met the beard and hid the mouth, but the man seemed to be smiling as he greeted the boys.
“Howdy do, mates,” he said in a gruff voice that seemed to come from his scuffed boots. “Fine weather we’re having.”
“You can’t beat it,” replied Hal flippantly.
The stranger paused in front of the group and thrust his big, gnarled hands into the pockets of his jacket. The boys were gazing fascinatedly now at the man’s right eye which, no matter how its companion roamed, remained fixed upon them with a baleful gleam.
“Campin’ out, I see,” said the man. “Havin’ a fine time, too, I bet ye.”
“Great,” agreed Hal. “Anything we can do for you?”
“Thank ye, my boy. I might take a bit to eat if it’s right handy. Not wishin’ to put ye to no trouble, however.”
“That’s all right,” said Jack. “We haven’t anything cooked, though. Maybe there’s some tea left, and we’ve got plenty of bread and butter.”
“The butter’s not very good,” warned Hal.