“Guess I lay in some hair tonic so’s to have a good one ready for you,” returned Welton, as Harding nodded his farewell.

IX

Matters stood thus dependent on the efforts of Jack Orde, at Washington, when, one evening, Baker rode in to camp and dismounted before the low verandah of the sleeping quarters.  Welton and Bob sat, chair-tilted, awaiting the supper gong.

“Thrice hail, noble chiefs!” cried Baker, cautiously stretching out first one sturdy leg, then the other.  “Against which post can I lean my trusty charger?”

Baker was garbed to suit the role.  His boots were very thick and very tall, and most bristly with hobnails; they laced with belt laces through forty-four calibre eyelets, and were strapped about the top with a broad piece of leather and two glittering buckles.  Furthermore, his trousers were of khaki, his shirt of navy blue, his belt three inches broad, his neckerchief of red, and his hat both wide and high.

In response to enthusiastic greetings, he struck a pose.

“How do you like it?” he inquired.  “Isn’t this the candy make-up for the simple life—­surveyor, hardy prospector, mountain climber, sturdy pedestrian?  Ain’t I the real young cover design for the Out-of-door number?”

He accepted their congratulations with a lofty wave.

“That’s all right,” said he; “but somebody take away this horse before I bite him.  I’m sore on that horse.  Joke!  Snicker!”

Bob delivered over the animal to the stableman who was approaching.

“Come up to see the tall buildings?” he quoted Baker himself.

“Not so,” denied that young man.  “My errand is philanthropic.  I’m robin redbreast.  Leaves for yours.”

“Pass that again,” urged Bob; “I didn’t get it.”

“I hear you people have locked horns with Henry Plant,” said Baker.

“Well, Plant’s a little on the peck,” amended Welton.

“Leaves for yours,” repeated the self-constituted robin redbreast.  “Babes in the Woods!”

Beyond this he would vouchsafe nothing until after supper when, cigars lighted, the three of them sprawled before the fireplace in quarters.

“Now,” he began, “you fellows are up against it good and plenty.  You can’t wish your lumber out, and that’s the only feasible method unless you get a permit.  Why in blazes did you make this break, anyway?”

“What break?” asked Welton.

Baker looked at him and smiled slowly.

“You don’t think I own a telephone line without knowing what little birdies light on the wires, do you?”

“Does that damn operator leak?” inquired Welton placidly but with a narrowing of the eyes.

“Not on your saccharine existence.  If he did, he’d be out among the scenery in two jumps.  But I’m different.  That’s my business.”

“Mighty poor business,” put in Bob quietly.