Within the ranch-house Scotty dropped into the nearest chair.
"Tell me, Rankin," he began, "who is the new-comer, and where did you get him?" A long leg swung comfortably over its mate. "And, by the way, while you're about it, is he six or sixty? By Jove, I couldn't tell!"
The host looked at his visitor quizzically.
"Ben, I suppose you mean?"
"Ben, or Tom, I don't know. I mean the gentleman on the front steps, the one who didn't know your name," and the Englishman related the recent conversation.
The corners of Rankin's eyes tightened into an unwonted smile as he listened, and then contracted until the corner of the large mouth drew upward in sympathy.
"I'm not surprised, Baker," he admitted, "that you're in doubt about Ben's age. He's eight; but I'd be uncertain myself if I didn't absolutely know. As to his not knowing my name—it's just struck me that I've never introduced myself to the little fellow."
"But how did you come to get him? This isn't a country where one sees many children roaming around."
"No," the big mouth dropped back into its normal shape; "that's a fact. He didn't just drop in. I got him by adoption, I suppose; least ways, I asked him to come and live with me, and he accepted." The speaker turned to his companion directly. "You knew Jennie Blair, did you?"
Scotty looked interested.