He asked several more questions about the chances of obtaining good heads of moose and caribou in the Beaver Brook, Teakettle, and Dan's River country this season, talked of past adventures which he had shared with the young woodsman, and slipped in more than one query concerning Maggie Leblanc. Then, promising to see David again in a day or two, he lit another cigar and took his departure.
Ten minutes later, on the road, Harvey P. Banks met Reginald Baynes Rayton. The Englishman wore his oldest pair of breeches, but their cut was undeniable. Banks' eyes were sharp, though their expression was usually exceedingly mild.
"You are Mr. Rayton, who is farming the old Bill Hooker place, I am sure," he said.
"Yes. And you are Mr. Banks, of New York, I'm quite positive," returned Rayton, lifting a shabby felt hat, and laughing pleasantly. There was nothing to laugh at—but Reginald had a way of laughing politely at everything and nothing. It meant nothing, but it covered profound meanings.
Mr. Banks returned the unexpected salute with a fine gesture of his tweed cap, and then the two shook hands.
"I have just been to see poor David Marsh," said Banks. "I blew him up pretty high, at first, but I melted when I heard what he has on his mind."
"Yes, he seems to be in a funk about one thing and another," returned Rayton. "But it is rough on you, too. But—ah—I think I can help you—if you don't consider it cheeky of me to—to make a suggestion."
"Cheeky! My dear Mr. Rayton, I'll bless you for a likely suggestion."
"Then let me put you on to some good shooting. I know this country fairly well, considering I'm a new settler, and this is my slack season on the farm. I can help you to a couple of good heads, I'm positive. We can make my house our headquarters, for the game is very close in this year. The house is snug, and I am something quite special in the cooking line. What do you say?"
"It sounds mighty tempting, but—well, Mr. Rayton, I am a business man, and I like to see the business end of every proposition before I start in."