“I don’t know, me.  I think not,” replied The Eena.

“You’re lucky,” went on Banty.  “But my cousin’s sure to wear them, and they’re spoil-sport things, I can tell you!  No salmon fishing, no mountaineering, no hunting while they’re around.  But, Eena, why do you call my cousin a King Georgeman?”

“It is the Chinook for what you call an Englishman,” replied the Indian.

“Why, what a dandy idea!” exclaimed the boy.  “I think I shall like my cousin better because of that Chinook term.  I can even go the patent leather shoes; I believe I’d almost wear them myself to be called a King Georgeman.”

“You’ll like your Ow” (Ow is Chinook for young cousin or brother), encouraged The Eena.  “King Georgeman all good sport, all same fine fellows, learn Indian ways quick.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Banty, a little doubtfully, for, truth to tell, he had small liking of the idea of a brand-new English cousin on his hands for the summer, a Londoner at that, who knew nothing of even the English country, let alone the wilderness of mountains, canyons, and the endless forests of British Columbia.  Poor Banty had been so accustomed to chum about with the old Lillooet hunter whom he had nicknamed “The Eena” (which is the Chinook for “Beaver”) that the thought of a perfect outsider breaking into their companionship for all the holidays was little short of misery.

But the next day when Banty drove down to Kamloops to meet the train, and his cousin stepped from the sleeper on to the station platform, things looked worse than threatened misery.  The future loomed before him like a tragedy; he almost groaned aloud, for swinging towards him with a loose-jointed English gait was a tall, yellow-haired chap, the size of a man, with a face sea-tanned between a pink and a brown, his long neck encircled with a very high, very stiff collar, his light grey suit pressed as if it had just arrived from the tailor’s, and poor Banty’s quick eye flew from the smiling pink face to the faultlessly-trousered legs—­horrors!  The trousers were long. (Banty had at least expected a boy of his own size and age.) But, worst of all, below the trousers gleamed immaculate shoes of patent leather!

“I’m glad Eena didn’t come,” moaned Banty.  “If he’d seen this, he would have steered clear of the ranch for weeks.”  Then, bracing himself like a man, he went forward with outstretched hand to greet his unwelcome relative.  The English lad blushed like a girl as he met his Canadian cousin, but his handclasp was decidedly masculine as his soft London voice said:  “Awfully good of you to come and fetch me, don’t you know.  I suppose you’re my Cousin Bantmore?”

“‘Banty,’” was all the stricken boy could reply.

“Oh, good!  I like that, ‘Banty.’  That’s a great name!” exclaimed the tall Britisher.  “You’re lucky!  What would you do if you were handicapped with a tag like mine—­Constantine—­with all the dubs at school calling you ‘Tiny’ for short, while you stood a good five feet nine in your socks?  Isn’t it dreadful?”