They were here when Ferris, carrying a lantern, took Tom over after supper to show him the hotel and have him meet the workers.

“Boys,” said Ferris in his hearty way and with a kindly tact that increased Tom’s already strong admiration for him, “this is Tom Slade, comes from the big camp up Catskill way. He’s got a lot of this woodcraft dope and he’s going to get us started on the log cabin. Hope some of you’ll give him a hand.”

“Welcome to our city,” said a voice with a rich, musical volume to it. The words seemed to roll out as if they were greased.

“Meet Mr. Fairgreaves, Slade,” said Ferris.

Mr. Fairgreaves, as Tom could just about make out in the fitful lantern light, wore khaki trousers, a blue flannel shirt and a cutaway coat. A more outlandish combination could hardly be imagined, yet this coat, despite its incongruous companion garments, gave its wearer a certain gracious dignity which was heightened by a distinguished countenance, with dashing, wavy hair and an extensive, mobile mouth.

“Thrice welcome to our humble domicile,” he said.

He seemed so hospitable that Tom felt already a little qualm of remorse that he had elected to sleep and dine apart from this group. Somehow or other Mr. Fairgreaves’ ample welcome seemed to bespeak the friendly, rough and ready spirit of the place. It made Tom feel a little guilty.

There were eight or ten men lounging on the porch, ranging in age from twenty to thirty, Tom thought. He was introduced to but three or four individually, and these he supposed to be the steadies.

One who seemed youngish, although quite bald, he guessed to be the inventor with a fortune hinging on a law suit. Even in the dim light Tom could see that two or three were rather dubious looking characters.

One who leaned against the railing smoking a pipe wore a doughboy’s uniform and a slouch hat. Tom thought afterward that he was one who had been introduced as Mr. Whalen. But the introductions had been very haphazard and the darkness had made them all but superfluous.

When he went to bed in a funny little room in the cottage that night, the only one of the group he seemed to know by name was Mr. Fairgreaves. Mr. Fairgreaves’ black cutaway and melodious, rolling voice had triumphed over the darkness.

CHAPTER XVII

 Prev. P 39/96 next