of my own. I think it would be a pretty experiment, sir,
to see how far this young back-woodsman could go."

* * * * *

Strange indeed would have seemed to any prying eye the occurrences
within the walls of McCalloway's cabin on those many evenings which
Boone Wellver spent there. But of what took place the boy breathed no
word, despite the almost feverish eagerness that glowed constantly in
his blue eyes. His natural taciturnity would have sealed his lips had he
given the "furriner" no pledge of confidence, and even McCalloway never
guessed how strict was the censorship of that promise as Boone
construed its meaning. Inasmuch as he could not be sure just what
details, out of the summary of their conversations, fell under the
restrictive ban, he set upon the whole association a seal of Masonic
silence. And Victor McCalloway, recognizing that dependable discretion,
talked with a freedom which he would have permitted himself with few
other companions.

Sometimes he read aloud from books whose pages were, to the young
listener, gates swinging open upon gilded glimpses of chivalry, heroism
and those thoughts which are not groundling but winged and splendid.
Sometimes through the hills where the distances shimmered with an ashen
ghost of brilliance, they tramped together, a peripatetic philosopher
and his devoted disciple.

But strangest and most fantastical of all, were the hours they spent
before McCalloway's hearth when the man threw off his coat and rolled
his sleeves high over scarred forearms while the boy's eyes sparkled
with anticipation. And at outside mention of these sessions, McCalloway
himself might have reddened to the cheekbones, for then it was that the
man produced improvised wooden swords and placed himself, feet wide
apart and left hand elevated in the attitude of the fencer's salute.
Facing him was a solemn, burning-eyed pupil and adversary of fifteen in
a linsey-woolsey shirt and jeans overalls. The lad with his freckled
face and his red-brown shock of hair made an absurd contrast with the
gentleman whose sword play possessed the exquisite grace and deft
elegance of a Parisian fencing master--but Boone had the astonishing
swiftness of a panther cub, and a lightning play of wrist and agility of
limb. How rapidly he was gaining mastery over his foil he could not,
himself, realize because standing over against him was one of the best
swords of Europe, but this enthusiasm,