The Sky Pilot in No Mans Land | Page 3

one is the poverty of the other."
"Where is he going?" enquired the boy.
"Out by way of Edmonton, Calgary, Moose Jaw, Minneapolis, so on to Pittsburgh. Partner with him, young lawyer, expert in mines, unmarried. He is coming back in a couple of months or so for a big hunt. Wants us to join him. Really extraordinary, when you come to think of it, how much information he was able to convey in such a short space of time. Marvellous gift of expression!"
"What did you say, dad?"
"Say? Oh, as to his invitation! Why, I believe I accepted, my boy. It seemed as if I could do nothing else. It's a way he has."
"Is--is the daughter to be along?"
"Let me see. What did he say? Really, I don't know. But I should judge that it would be entirely as she wished. She is--"
"Boss of the show, eh?"
"Exactly. Most vivid phrase, eh?"
"Very. And no doubt aptly descriptive of the fact."
In half an hour the breakfast was finished, and the elder man got his pipe a-going.
"Now, dad, you had better go along and make your call, while I get things together here."
"What! You not going! No, no, that won't do, my boy. It was about you they were concerned. You were the occasion of the acquaintanceship. Besides, meeting in the wilderness this way we can't do that sort of thing, you know."
"Well, dad, frankly, I am quite terrified of the young lady. Suppose she should start bossing us. We should both be quite helpless."
"Oh, nonsense, boy! Come along. Get your hat."
"All right, I'll come. On your head be the consequences, dad. No. I don't need a hat. Fortunately I put on a clean shirt. Will I do, dad? You know I'm 'scairt stiff,' as Harry Hobbs would say."
His father looked him over, but there was nothing critical in his glance. Pride and love filled his eyes as they ran over his son's face and figure. And small wonder! The youth was good to look upon. A shade under six feet he stood, straight and slim, strength and supple grace in every move of his body. His face was beautiful with the beauty of features, clean cut and strong, but more with the beauty of a clear, candid soul. He seemed to radiate an atmosphere of cheery good nature and unspoiled simplicity. He was two years past his majority, yet he carried the air of a youth of eighteen, in which shyness and fearlessness looked out from his deep blue eyes. It was well that he wore no hat to hide the mass of rich brown hair that waved back from his forehead.
"You'll do, boy," said his father, in a voice whose rigid evenness of tone revealed the emotion it sought to conceal. "You'll take all the shine from me, you young beggar," he added in a tone of gruff banter, "but there was a time--"
"WAS a time, dad? IS, and don't tell me you don't know it. I always feel like a school kid in any company when you're about.
'When the sun comes out All the little stars run in,'"
he sang from a late music hall effusion. "Why, just come here and look at yourself," and the boy's eyes dwelt with affectionate pride upon his father.
It was easy to see where the boy got his perfect form. Not so tall as his son, he was more firmly knit, and with a kind of dainty neatness in his appearance which suggested the beau in earlier days. But there was nothing of weakness about the erect, trim figure. A second glance discovered a depth of chest, a thickness of shoulder and of thigh, and a general development of muscle such as a ring champion might show; and, indeed, it was his achievements in the ring rather than in the class lists that won for Dick Dunbar in his college days his highest fame. And though his fifty years had slowed somewhat the speed of foot and hand, the eye was as sure as ever, and but little of the natural force was abated which once had made him the glory of the Cambridge sporting youth, and which even yet could test his son's mettle in a fast bout.
On the sandy shore of the river below the eddy, they found the American and his party gathered, with their stuff ranged about them ready for the canoes.
"Ah, here you are, sir," said the American, advancing hat in hand. "And this is your son, the young rascal who came mighty near giving me heart failure this morning. By the way, I haven't the pleasure of knowing your name."
"My name is Richard Dunbar, and this is my son Barry."
"My name is Osborne Howland, of Pittsburgh, and this is my daughter Paula. In bloomers, as you see, but nevertheless my daughter.