“I am,” said Seaforth dryly, “glad to hear you say so, even though your recent conduct would make it somewhat difficult for most people to believe you.”

Alton glanced at him very gravely.  “I don’t like those jokes,” he said.  “You’ll get more sense as you grow up, Charley.”

CHAPTER XIII

THE SOMASCO CONSOLIDATED

Alton left Vancouver by the Quebec express next day, found horses waiting at the little station, and only waiting while fresh ones were saddled at a lonely ranch, took the trail again before the first faint light crept out of the east.  He also spoke little with Seaforth during the journey, and stared at the latter, who drew rein when the weary horses plodded, steaming and bespattered all over, into the settlement.

“What are you stopping for?” he said.

Seaforth glanced at the wisp of blue smoke which hung about the pines behind Horton’s hotel.  “It’s rather more than twelve hours since I’ve had a meal,” he said.  “Don’t you ever get tired or hungry, Harry?”

Alton laughed.  “Oh, yes; sometimes I do, but not usually when I’m busy.  Anyway, if the beasts hold out we’ll be getting breakfast at Somasco in two hours or so.”

Seaforth groaned inwardly, but, knowing the futility of argument, shook his bridle and rode on, lurching a little in his saddle as the tired horse stumbled into mudholes and, brushed through dripping fern.  By and by, however, Alton swung himself down in front of a lonely log-house with a big clearing behind it, where a man took their horses without a word and signed them to enter.

Seaforth stretched his limbs wearily, and would have dropped into a chair but that Alton stood erect until the man came back again, and dusting two seats with his soft hat pointed to them with a gesture of hospitality.  His hair and beard were frosted, his face was lean and brown, and there were many wrinkles about his eyes, but he held himself very upright and pointed to the stove.

“Ye’ll be in from Vancouver.  I’ll ready ye some pork and flapjacks?” he said.

Alton shook his head.  “Don’t worry, I can’t wait,” he said.

“Ye are very welcome,” said the other.

“Of course!” said Alton simply; “still, I can’t stop.  I’m here to talk business, Callender.”

Seaforth noticed that in face of the typical absence of protest or compliment there was nothing the most critical could find fault with in the invitation or the refusal.  The old man was dressed in very curiously-patched jean, but he was almost stately in his simplicity, and nothing could have been more apposite than the little nod with which Alton made his affirmation.  It implied a good deal more than speech could have done.

“Ye will be asking about the place?” said Callender.  “I’m wanting three thousand dollars.  It’s worth all that.”

Alton nodded, and it was evident that the men understood each other, for there was no endeavour to lessen or enhance the value of the property.  “It will be worth more presently, but that’s about the fair thing now,” he said.