"That's queer," said Rayton. "Turk never gives false alarms."
CHAPTER VII
MR. BANKS TAKES A HAND IN THE GAME
Mr. Harvey P. Banks, of New York, was an angry and dejected man when he arrived at Samson's Mill Settlement, only to learn that his guide of several past seasons—in fact, the only available professional guide in the district—was laid up with a broken arm. He poured the full stream of his wrath upon the unfortunate David Marsh. He was a big man—tall, thick, broad, and big of face and hand, big of voice, foot, and outlook upon life—and his size seemed to fill the little farmhouse bedroom and press poor David against the wall. After expressing himself at length, he asked why the guide had not wired to him, so as to give him time to make other arrangements.
Now that was a question that David had asked himself, too late. He answered truthfully, his courage reviving as he realized that his excuse was a pretty good one. He told of his accident in detail, of his suspicion of Dick Goodine, and then, after another question or two, he went back and described the game of poker, the marked card, and told Jim Harley's story. Thus he explained a state of mind that had turned big business considerations into unimportant shadows and meaningless whisperings.
Through it all Mr. Harvey P. Banks sat in a splint-bottomed chair—bulging generously over the edges of the seat—smoking a long cigar, and gazing unblinkingly at the young woodsman. He nodded his big head when David finished, and flipped a two-inch white ash from the end of his cigar to the hooked mat at his feet.
"That's good enough for me, Marsh," he said. "I take back the hard names I called you a few minutes ago. No wonder you forgot to send me a wire."
He turned his head and gazed through the window at a field of buckwheat stubble, rusty-red, and a green-black wall of spruces and firs.
"Jim Harley told you the story, you say?"