and boys knew naught of the art of swimming in that land of
little water.

Suddenly Roldan raised his hand with an exclamation of surprise and
pointed to a ledge overhanging the stream. A hut stood there, made of
sections of the redwood and pine. From its chimney, smoke was curling
upward.

The boys were too hungry to pause and reflect upon the possibility of a
savage inmate; they scrambled up the bank and ran along the ledge to
the hut. The door was of hide. They knocked. There was no response.
They flung the door aside and entered. No one was in the solitary room
of the hut, but over a fire in the deep chimney place hung a large pot,
in which something of agreeable savour bubbled.

Roldan glanced about. "I'd rather be invited," he said doubtfully.

But Adan had gone straight for the pot. He lifted it off the fire,
fetched three broken plates and battered knives and forks from a shelf,
and helped his friends and himself. Then he piously crossed himself and
fell to. It was not in human necessities to withstand the fragrance of
that steaming mess of squirrel, and the boys had disposed of the entire
potful before they raised their eyes again. When they did, Rafael, who
sat opposite the door, made a slight exclamation, and the others turned
about quickly. A man stood there.

He was quite unlike any one they had ever seen. A tall lank man with
rounded shoulders, lean leather-like cheeks, a preternatural length of
jaw, drab hair and chin whiskers, and deeply-set china-blue eyes, made
up a type uncommon in the Californias, that land of priest, soldier,
caballero, and Indian. He was clad in coyote skins, and carried a gun
in his hand, a brace of rabbits slung over one shoulder. He did not
speak for some seconds, and when he did, it was to make a remark that
was not understood. He said: "Well, I'll be durned!"

His expression was not forbidding, and Roldan recovered himself at
once. He stood up and bowed profoundly.

"Senor," he said, "I beg that you will pardon us. We would have craved
your hospitality had you been here, but as it was, our hunger overcame
us: we have not eaten for many hours. But I am Roldan Castanada of the
Rancho de los Palos Verdes, senor, and I beg that you will one day let
me repay your hospitality in the house of my fathers."

"Holy smoke!" exclaimed the man, "all that high-falutin' lingo for a
potful of squirril. But you're welcome enough. I don't begrudge anybody
sup." Then he broke into a la