He picked up a gun now from where it stood against the wall, whistled
shrilly, and a brown dog appeared hastily from somewhere in the grass,
wagging his tail in anticipation.
"Mind if I poke along with you," he said to Thompson. "There's a slough
over beyond your diggin's where I go now and then to pick up a duck or
two."
They fell into step across the meadow.
"Our host," Thompson observed, "is not quite the type one expects to
find here--permanently. I understand he has been here a long time."
"Fifteen years," Tommy supplied cheerfully. "Deuce of a time to be
buried alive, eh? Carr hasn't got rusty, though. No. Mind like a steel
trap, that man. Curious sort of individual. You ought to see the books
he's got. Amazing. Science, philosophy, the poets--all sorts. Don't try
arguing theology with him unless you're quite advanced. Of course, I
know the church is adapting itself to modern thought, in a way. But
he'll tie you in a bowknot if you hold to the old theological doctrines.
Fact. Carr's scholarly sort, but awfully radical. Awfully."
"It's queer," said Thompson, "why a man like that should bury himself
here so long. Is it a fact that he is married to a native woman? His
daughter now--one wouldn't imagine her--"
"No fear," Tommy Ashe interrupted. "Carr's got an Indian woman, right
enough. They've got three mixed-blood youngsters. But his daughter--"
He gave Thompson a quick sidelong glance.
"Sophie's pure blood," said he. "She's a thorough-bred."
He said it almost challengingly.