Entering this path, he strolled leisurely on, his mind intent upon the situation in which his father’s death had placed him.
“I haven’t a dollar, or not much more than that sum,” he thought, “nor a friend, either. I can’t expect anything but the toughest sort of a pull, wherever I go or whatever I take up; but it can’t be worse than ’twould be here, working for Uncle Arad.”
After traversing the path for some distance, Don reached a spot where a rock cropped up beside the way, and he rested himself on this, still studying on the problem which had been so fully occupying his mind for several weeks past.
As he sat there, idly pulling handfuls of glossy black feathers from the dead crow, the noise of a footstep on the path in his rear caused him to spring up and look in that direction.
A man was coming down the path—a sinister faced, heavily bearded man, who slouched along so awkwardly that Brandon at first thought him lame. But the boy had seen a few sailors, besides his father, in his life, and quickly perceived that the stranger’s gait was caused simply by a long experience of treading the deck of a vessel at sea.
He was a solidly built man, not below the medium height, yet his head was set so low between his shoulders, and thrust forward in such a way that it gave him a dwarfed appearance. His hands were rammed deeply into his pockets, an old felt hat was drawn down over his eyes, and his aspect was generally seedy and not altogether trustworthy.
He started suddenly upon seeing the boy, and gazed at him intently as he approached.
“Well, shipmate, out gunning?” he demanded, in a tone which was intended to be pleasant.
“A little,” responded Brandon, kicking the body of the dead crow into the bushes. “We’re always gunning for those fellows up this way.”
“Crows, eh?” said the man, stopping beside the boy, who had rested himself on the rock again. “They’re great chaps for pullin’ corn—faster’n you farmers can plant it, eh?”