“Are you going fishing to-day?” asked Miss Armstrong, when he came downstairs. He had appeared unexpectedly soon that morning. The young woman was always an early riser.
“Fishing!” echoed Stranleigh. “Yes, in a manner of speaking. Isn’t there a text which refers to fishers of men? I’m going fishing for your father. We should have had him here before this, but now the need of him becomes imperative. I imagine that a telegram awaits me in Bleachers. If not, I must communicate with New York, and wait for a reply.”
Stranleigh walked up the hill to the bunk house, and rapped at the panel with the butt of his riding whip. Dean himself threw open the door, and he could not conceal his astonishment at seeing the young man standing there, apparently unarmed.
“Good morning, Jim,” said Stranleigh cordially.
“I wish to enjoy a few minutes’ conversation with the company before leaving for Bleachers.”
“None of the company are out of their bunks yet, except myself, but I guess they’re wide enough awake to hear what you say. Won’t you come inside?”
“Thank you,” said Stranleigh, stepping across the threshold; then, to the sleeping beauties—“The top of the morning to you! Early to bed and late to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise. Has wisdom come to you since I left? Do you still intend to shoot up Bleachers on auction day?”
“You bet we do,” said Dean.
Stranleigh seated himself upon the chair he had formerly occupied.