The stranger arose from the boulder and stepped to the middle of the road. He moved with a slouching swagger, and the small black mustache midway his swarthy face was lifted slightly at the tips by a cryptic smile. Jim judged him to be five or six years older than himself, of his own height or within an inch of it, and a few pounds less than himself in bone and muscle. Jim made his observations and formed his judgments in a single glance of the eye.
"I asked where ye a-goin' to so fast?" repeated the stranger.
"Along this road," replied Jim.
"That's as may be," returned the woodsman.
"I suppose you are Mark Ducat," said Jim, pleasantly.
"That's me. Ye've heered o' me, hey? Well, I reckon that's all that's needed. Todhunter's yer name, an' ye're from Hammond's. But I don't hold that agin ye, for maybe ye ain't seen through Amos Hammond yet."
"I've seen enough of him to believe almost anything bad of him."
"That's the way to talk! Maybe ye was figgerin' on makin' us a visit. There's quite a raft o' Ducats within a mile o' where we stand, an' they'd all be proud to know ye. Come along."
"Delighted! You're very kind," returned Jim.
They walked onward side by side.