"Old man
'lowed I'd know ye right away, but I kind o' mistrusted till I see ye
stop and look 'raound same's if ye'd lost the trail. I'll take them
traps and that bag if ye don't mind," and he relieved me of my
sketch-kit and bag. "Buck-board's right out here behind the freight
shed," and he pointed across the track. "Old mare's kinder skeery o' the
engine, so I tied her a piece off."
He was precisely the man I had expected to find--even to his shaggy gray
hair matted close about his ears, wrinkled, leathery face, and long,
scrawny neck. He wore the same rough, cowhide boots and the very hat I
had seen so often reproduced--such a picturesque slouch of a hat with
that certain cant to the rim which betokens long usage and not a little
comfort, especially on balsam boughs with the sky for a covering, and
only the stars to light one to bed.
I had heard all these several details and appointments described ever so
minutely by an enthusiastic brother brush who had spent the preceding
summer with old man Marvin--Jim's employer--but he had forgotten to
mention, or had failed to notice, the peculiar softness of Jim's voice
and his timid, shrinking eyes--the eyes of a dog rather than those of a
man--not cowardly eyes, nor sneaking eyes--more the eyes of one who had
suffered constantly from sudden, unexpected blows, and who shrank from
your gaze and dodged it as does a hound that misunderstands a gesture.
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