"Why didn't you obey me?" he asked. "They's gals there. I hates gals," said the boy in a confidential tone. "Any sort o' men critters I kin stand, but gals gits my goat." "Who are you?" inquired Mr. Conant. "Me? I'm jus' Bub." "Where is Mr. Morrison's man?" "Meanin' Talbot? Gone up to Mark's Peak, to guide a gang o' hunters f'm the city." "When did he go?" asked the lawyer. "I guess a Tuesday. No--a Wednesday." "And when will he be back?" The boy whittled, abstractedly. "Answer me!" "How kin I? D'ye know where Mark's Peak is?" "No." "It takes a week ter git thar; they'll likely hunt two er three weeks; mebbe more; ye kin tell that as well as I kin. Mister Will's gone ter You-RUPP with Miss' Morrison, so Talbot he won't be in no hurry ter come back." "Great Caesar! Here's a pretty mess. Are you Talbot's boy?" "Nope. I'm a Grigger, an' live over in the holler, yonder." "What are you doing here?" "Earnin' two bits a week." "How?" "Lookin' after the place." "Very well. Mr. Morrison has given us permission to use the Lodge while he is away, so unlock the doors and help get the baggage in." The boy notched the stick with his knife, using great care. "Talbot didn't say nuth'n' 'bout that," he remarked composedly.