"You've struck it," laughed the other, accepting the proffered hand and giving it a hearty shake. "And mighty glad I am, too, that you chaps have arrived," he went on, totally ignoring the presence of many interested listeners.
"My uncle spoke to me about you," said Bob. "Fellows, this is Howard Fenton."
"Feels good to meet some one," laughed Dave. "Takes off some of the strangeness of landing in a strange place. How do you like it out here?"
"For a while, not at all," replied Fenton, lowering his voice. "You see," he added, confidentially, "I was always used to the city, and the strangeness you speak of—well"—he drew a long breath—"it hit me pretty hard, at first. Silly, I know, but the pater—he's out here with me—thought he knew what kind of a vacation I'd enjoy."
"And he wasn't mistaken, after all," interrupted Bob; "I can see that by your face."
"I should say not. A few days, and I began to like it immensely."
"See here," broke in Dugan's rough voice, as its owner stepped out of the post-office, "I'm going to take your truck over to the house. If you're goin', jump in;" and, without waiting for a reply, he mounted to his seat.
"Coming along, Fenton, aren't you?" inquired Bob, cordially.
The New York boy nodded.
"Sure," he answered. "We'll get better acquainted on the way. Maybe I can help you to get things started."