determined, and his mouth as kind and sweet as Jack's own mother's, but
his hands and shoulders were what spoke of his pioneer life. There was
something about those strong, clean fingers, those upright shoulders,
that made Jack love him at sight.

Matt Larson never dressed like anyone else. Years of exploring the wilds
had got him so accustomed to heavy boots and leather knee gaiters, that
he never seemed to be able to discard them when he touched town life,
which, truth to tell, was as seldom as possible. His suit of heavy,
rough tweeds, blue flannel shirt and flowing black silk handkerchief for
a tie, never seemed to leave his back, and no one recollected having
ever seen him wear a hat. A small, checked cloth cap, flung on the very
back of his head, was his only head covering, rain or shine.

"No, don't call me 'uncle,'" he laughed, as Jack greeted him with the
respect the relationship demanded. "You and I are just going to be pals.
All hands up north call me Larry--I suppose it's short for Larson--so
it's Larry to you, isn't it, old man?"

"Yes, Larry," replied Jack, with all his heart warming to this
extraordinarily handsome, genial relative, "and I think we will be pals,
all right," he continued.

"No 'think' about it; it's a dead sure fact!" asserted Matt Larson,
gripping Jack's hand with those splendid, sturdy fingers of his. Then,
turning abruptly to his dunnage bags, gun cases, and the general duffle
of the "up-norther," he extracted therefrom a most suspiciously-shaped
russet leather case, and handing it to Jack, said: "That's yours, boy,
never to be used except in emergency, but always to be kept in the pink
of condition, ready for instant action."