“You’d make a grand prospector,” Mr. Bowman, a large, ruddy-faced man, laughed. “Going after gold, I suppose.”
“I—I might,” Florence admitted timidly. “But first I must find my grandfather.”
“Your grandfather?” Mrs. Bowman stared at her. “Is he in Nome?”
“Yes, I—”
“Look, John!” Mrs. Bowman broke in excitedly. “This is Tom Kennedy’s granddaughter. She, why, she’s the living image of him!”
“You are right, my dear,” the husband admitted.
“Oh! And do I truly look like him?” Florence’s mind went into a wild whirl. “I am his granddaughter, but who’d have thought—”
“That we could tell it? That is strange. But such things do happen. Shall we be seated?” Mrs. Bowman took a chair.
“Let me tell you,” she leaned forward, “your grandfather is a wonderful man, truly remarkable.”
“He—he is?” Florence stared. “I thought—”