“My name’s Bill—–­Bill Terrill—–­perhaps you’ve heard tell o’ me?  I’m Old Man Walsh’s nevvy, your friend Tom’s Cousin.”

“I’ve heard of you,” said Ralph, drily.

“Who told you, then?”

“Jack Durham—–­another cousin of yours.”

“Oh!   You don’t mean the kid that joined that ’ere Boy Scout crowd
over at Pi’neer Camp last summer, after---after------”

“After you attacked the old man and him in the woods, one day.  Yes, he’s the one.  He told me.”

“You an’ him pals?”

“Not exactly; he’s much younger than I.”

“How old are you?”

“Nineteen next month.”

“Old enough ter know better, eh?”

“What do you mean?”

“Better than ter go diggin’ fer—–­well, gold, in these ’ere parts.”

A blush overspread Ralph’s freckled face, but it faded as quickly as it had come, and he continued to stare at Bill Terrill.

“I wasn’t digging for gold,” he said quietly.

“Of course not!  I was only joshing you, boy!  Say, what I wanted ter see you about is this:  there’s some dispute between the what-d’-you-call-uns?—–­executors?—–­of your dad’s will and Old Man Perkins, who owns the farm next ter yours, about the boundary lines.  Old Man Perkins, he claims-----”

“He has no claim whatever!” interrupted Ralph, vehemently.  “That old dispute was almost settled before my father’s death.  Dad had our farm surveyed, charted, and the boundaries marked.  I can show you the stone on the northwest corner; it’s only a few yards away, over there.”

“Well, Perkins is havin’ his acres surveyed now,” said Terrill, “an’ I’m one of the crew that’s doing the job fer him.  I’m axeman.  You see, I’ve reformed consid’r’ble since-----since last summer, and I j’ined a surveyin’ crew; axeman now, rodman later, if I’m good, an’-------”

“But why did you want to see me?  Was it about this boundary question?”

“Oh, you admit there is some question about it, after all?”

“Are you trying to pump me, Terrill?” asked Ralph, shrewdly suspicious.  “If you are, you won’t get any satisfaction until I’ve seen our lawyer.  It seems to me you’re playing detective instead of surveyor, and you don’t do it very well!  You had better stick to your job, and the axe!”

Terrill grinned.

“If it turns out that your pa made some mistake or was—–­er—–­too cock-sure about the lay o’ this land, what d’you think Old Man Perkins would do about it?” he inquired meaningly.

“Prove his claim, and take part of our present farm away from us, of course,” Ralph retorted.  “But there is no mistake.  The land is ours.”

“And if it is, would you be willing to sell——­”

“Not a square foot of it—–­to Perkins.”

So saying, Ralph picked up his cap, and carefully brushed off the clay and leaves.  As he did so, the shining feather caught his downcast eyes once more, and this time he stooped, picked it up, and deliberately stuck it under the band of the inside of his cap.  Then he secured the faithful Keno, and, without another word to Bill Terrill, who had moved away whistling defiantly, he tramped homeward, in a rather gloomy mood.