“Don’t mind the dogs,” he called; “they’re not savage. We’re not accustomed to seeing travelers often, though, and it makes them excited.”
The speaker was a middle-aged, well-built man, of medium height, bronzed by sun and wind, with an expression and bearing that told of a condition in life above that of the poor settler. He spoke, too, in accents different from what they had been accustomed of late to hear. He eyed them shrewdly, as they came to the door.
“THE SPEAKER WAS A MIDDLE-AGED, WELL-BUILT MAN.”
“Come inside,” he said, holding the door ajar for them. “You’re fishermen by your dress—and you’re not. Am I right? If I were to guess, I’d take you to be northerners, though what you’re doing away down in this lonesome place is what puzzles me. You’ve been on the bay, perhaps, but you don’t look like bay men.”
All the while he spoke, his keen, brown eyes were bent critically upon them, as if the two afforded him an interesting study.
“You’re right, sir,” answered Tom Edwards, “we have been fishermen, but we’re not now; and what’s more, I hope we never shall be again. We’ve escaped from a dredger. And, sir, if you will allow me, you don’t look like a man that toils hard for a living. You’ve got a business hand.”
The man smiled and nodded. “You and I are regular Sherlock Holmeses,” he said. “Sit down by the fire. No, I’m not a resident here. I’m an invalid. Do I look it?”
He threw out his chest and laughed heartily.
“You certainly do not,” answered Tom Edwards.