Knight, with his sketch-book beside him, sat in the stern. He had never
taken much interest in Rufus before; but now, seated facing him, with
the giant muscles and grim, unresponsive countenance of the man
perpetually before his eyes, the selecting genius in him awoke and began
to appraise.

Rufus wore a grey flannel shirt, open at the neck, displaying a broad
red chest, immensely powerful, with a bull-like strength that every
swing of the oars brought into prominence. He had not the appearance of
exerting himself unduly, albeit he was pulling in choppy water against
the tide.

His blue eyes gazed ever straight at the shore he was leaving. He seemed
so withdrawn into himself as to be oblivious of the fact that he was not
alone. Knight watched him, wondering if any thoughts were stirring in
the slow brain behind that massive forehead. Columbine had declared that
the man was an oaf, and he felt inclined to agree with her. And yet
there was something in the intensity of the fellow's eyes that held his
attention, the possibility of the actual existence of an unknown element
that did not fit into that conception of him. They were not the eyes of
a mere animal. There was no vagueness in their utter stillness. Rather
had they the look of a man who waits.

Curiosity began to stir within him. He wondered if by judicious probing
he could penetrate the wall of aloofness with which his companion seemed
to be surrounded. It would be interesting to know if the fellow really
possessed any individuality.

Airily he broke the silence. "Are you going to take me straight into the
temple of the sun? I thought I was out to see the fishing."