"Didn't know we had any neighbors in this block," said Dick.
"Think I know that feller," put in Havens. "Looks like Hank Merwin, the trapper."
The visitor did not arise as the boys approached. He was evidently a very tall, raw-boned man, and his face was bronzed to almost the color of an Indian's. He rested a Winchester rifle across his knees, and fastened to his belt was a holster containing a huge Colt revolver.
He looked impassively at the campers, then drawled, slowly, "Wal, young uns, arternoon!"
"Hello, Hank!" greeted Jim, familiarly. "These are some friends of mine out hunting and fishing. Speak your names, fellows."
Hank Merwin listened calmly. His face was as expressionless as a wooden Indian's.
"Huntin' an' fishin', eh? Wal, I happened along this way, and I sees that some one was a-usin' the dugout, so I stays."
"Glad you did, Hank," said Jim, cordially. "Grub with us to-night."
"Don't mind if I do."
When everything was under way, Dick Travers brought out his camera.