"
Over her head the first eyes that Steve encountered that evening were
those of Archibald Wickersham. While shaking hands with the girl, he
bowed in grave welcome to the tall figure in leather puttees and
whipcord riding-breeches, and Wickersham, from the far side of the
room, bowed back in equal gravity. Then Caleb Hunter grasped Steve's
elbow and spun him around toward the light and peered at him
accusingly. Barbara had not noticed until then how tired Steve looked.
"Before the others get to talking," said Caleb, "before the tide grows
too strong for my weak voice, young man, I want to deliver a message.
Miss Sarah wants it explicitly understood that unless you stop in to
say hello on your next trip down, she herself will take the trail up
here. And lest that ultimatum sound too little threatening, I might
add that when Miss Sarah takes the trail she never travels with less
than six trunks."
Caleb clung so tightly to his arm that it brought a tinge of color to
Steve's cheeks. It was minutes before he could get away to change his
wet clothes, and in that minute or two he could not help but contrast,
grimly, his own mud-spattered attire with that of Archie Wickersham.
The tired blue circles beneath his eyes wore even more noticeable when
he returned, to be ushered with much ceremony by Fat Joe to the head of
the table.
It was an utterly irresponsible gathering that leaned over the red
tablecloth that night--an oddly assorted group which, from the very
first, Joe realized was not at all to Wickersham's liking.
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