"Ye didn't, eh? Wall, ye never want to be surprised at anything I do.
I'm here to-day an' somewhere else to-morrow. I'm allus on the move,
rovin' from place to place. It's me nature, I guess."

"A rolling stone gathers no moss, so I've heard. Is that the way with
you?" Reynolds asked, with a twinkle to his eyes.

"I may git no moss, young man, an' not become a fossil like some of the
fellers in big cities, but I git a heap of rubbin' with me rollin', an'
that keeps me brightened up."

"But how did you get here ahead of me?" Reynolds questioned. "You were
not on the steamer, and I am certain you didn't walk."

Samson drew the grouse from the fire, and examined it critically.
Finding it not done to his satisfaction, he thrust it back again.

"Jist hand me that fryin'-pan, will ye?" and he motioned to his left.
"I want it handy when the bird's cooked. Ye didn't expect to find a
supper here to-night, young man, did ye?" and he looked quizzically at
Reynolds.

"Indeed I didn't," was the emphatic reply.

"Neither did ye imagine that it 'ud be a grouse's bones ye'd be
pickin'. Why, it's no tellin' where that bird was three days ago. It
may have been fifty miles or more away, fer all we know. But it's here
now, isn't it?"