The mountains,
too, with their wild forests and streams beckoned to him. The old,
inherited blood within him made the great pulses leap. But he slept at
last and dreamed of far-off things.
Harry and his father rose at the first silver shoot of dawn, and went
quickly through the deserted street to a quiet cove in the Kentucky,
where Samuel Jarvis had anchored his raft. It was a crisp morning,
with a tang in the air that made life feel good. A thin curl of smoke
was rising from the raft, showing that the man and his nephew were
already up, and cooking in the little hut on the raft.
Harry stepped upon the logs and his father followed him. Jarvis was
just pouring coffee from a tin pot into a tin cup, and Ike was turning
over some strips of bacon in an iron skillet on an iron stove. Both of
them, watchful like all mountaineers, had heard the visitors coming,
but they did not look up until they were on the raft.
"Mornin'," called Jarvis cheerfully. "Look, Ike, it's the big fish that
we hooked out of the river last night, an' he's got company."
"I want to thank you for saving my son's life," said the Colonel.
"I reckon, then, that you're Colonel George Kenton," said Jarvis.
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