Whispering Smith
“What a blaze!” she murmured as the driftwood snapped and roared. “It’s fine for to-night, isn’t it?”
“I know you both must have been in the water,” he insisted, leaning forward in front of Dicksie to feel Marion’s skirt.
“I’m not wet!” declared Marion, drawing back.
“Nonsense, you are wet as a rat! Tell me,” he asked, looking at Dicksie, “about your trouble up at the bend. I know something about it. Are the men there to-night? Given up, have they? Too bad! Do open your jackets and try to dry yourselves, both of you, and I’ll take a look at the river.”
“Suppose—I only say suppose—you first take a look at me.” The voice came from behind the group at the fire, and the three turned together.
“By Heaven, Gordon Smith!” exclaimed McCloud. “Where did you come from?”
Whispering Smith stood in the gloom in patience. “Where do I look as if I had come from? Why don’t you ask me whether I’m wet? And won’t you introduce me—but this is Miss Dicksie Dunning, I am sure.”
Marion with laughter hastened the introduction.
“And you are wet, of course,” said McCloud, feeling Smith’s shoulder.
“No, only soaked. I have fallen into the river
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