“How about me having a turn?”
It was a strange voice that spoke, a boy’s voice, quiet and cool, but with a mocking note of laughter in it.
They turned around suddenly and stared. There on the wharf behind them stood a tall fellow not much older than Johnny, with a lean face, sharp gray eyes, and sun-bleached hair. He wore cowhide boots and a loose hunting shirt over moosehide breeches. He carried a long pole with an iron barb on the end, such as the lumbermen used to break up log jams and herd the great rafts down the river.
“I’m know I’m a stranger here,” he went on, “but I ain’t poison. I been watching you awhile. I’d like a hand in the game.”
“You came down river with the logs?” asked Dick slowly.
The stranger nodded. “Aye, clear from the falls at Derryfield. A fellow can be lonely—away from his own town at night—first time away.” The sharpness went out of his eyes, and he looked younger, almost like a little boy.
“Of course you can play,” cried Kitty, sympathy in her voice. “I’ve been lonely, too, sometimes, when I went to visit Sally Rose in Charlestown, and I know what it’s like. He can count this time, can’t he, Sally Rose?”
“Of course he can,” said Sally Rose, smiling at the strange lad, flicking her lashes.
Dick and Eben looked crestfallen. Johnny kicked the side of the rum keg. “Didn’t know backwoodsmen could count,” he sneered. “Tell us what your name is, if you want to play.”
The stranger narrowed his eyes, then he opened them wide and smiled innocently. “My name’s Tom Trask,” he said, “and I can count.” He put his head down in the crook of his arm, but they did not hear the familiar “Ten—fifteen—twenty—”