“So I imagine,” said Mr. Zorn. “Lucky the motor didn’t set the scrap-heap afire. But it must have been quite a machine to start with.” And with that he began an observation tour about the Saracen, very much as Lon had made one. His companion appeared to be less interested; for, after fidgeting for a moment, he called out, impatiently:
“Let’s be getting along, Zorn! There’s nothing we can do here, and we’ll be late for our appointment, as it is.”
Mr. Zorn turned, and walked toward his car; but Sam, reminded of the errand he had proposed to do, quickly overtook him.
“Can you give me a minute, sir?” he asked. “It’s about the camp—the place where we’ve pitched a tent, I mean. We hear that it is on your land, and we’d like to get permission to stay there, or rent a little ground, or—or do whatever you think right.”
Ed Zorn had followed Sam. “It’s the squatter business I told you about,” he said to his father, meaningly. “A whole crowd has moved in, bag and baggage.”
“Oh!” said Mr. Zorn; his tone was not encouraging. “So you’re the camping party, eh? H-m-m! I don’t know about it, young man. The woods are mighty dry, and a little carelessness might cost me a pretty penny.”
“We’ll be careful,” Sam urged. “We understand the danger of starting a brush fire.”
“Umph!” said Mr. Zorn doubtfully.
“But we’ll promise——”
“What good are promises?” Ed interrupted.