was the lad's emphatic reply.

So impatient was he to see the marvels of this magic land that the last
few hours of the journey seemed unending.

But they did end.

Toward noon the heavy train pulled into Glen City and they bundled out
on to the platform. They were the only passengers, but there was a
great deal of freight--boxes, barrels, and cases of provisions. As they
stood hesitating as to what they had better do a tall, bony young fellow
approached the station agent and called with a decided suggestion of the
Highlander in his accent:

"I dinna see those kegs of lime for Crescent Ranch, Mitchell."

"They're here. You will find them at the end of the platform. Come, and
I'll help you pile them on your wagon."

Mr. Clark turned to the Scotchman.

"Are you going to Crescent Ranch?"

"Aye, I be, sir."

"Can you take my son and me along?"

The Scotchman studied him carefully.

"Have you business at the ranch?" he asked, looking keenly into the eyes
of the speaker.

Mr. Clark met his gaze good-naturedly.

"We might possibly have," he answered. "At any rate we want to go up
there. My name is Clark and I come from Boston."

"Clark, did you say, sir?"

"Yes."

The stolid stare of the Scotchman did not waver.

"Mayhap you're the owner, sir."

"Yes, I am."

A gleam of something very like satisfaction passed over the tanned
features of the young man. Then his face settled back into its wonted
calmness.

"It's welcome you are, sir," he said heartily. "I dinna think there'll
be trouble about taking you and your son to Crescent."

He wheeled and led the way to a wagon, where he piled up some sacks of
grain for his guests to sit upon. Then he lifted in their luggage and
the freight for which he had come, and gathered the lines over the backs
of his horses.

As the wagon toiled up the long, low hills Mr. Clark began asking
questions about the ranch--he asked many questions concerning the
country and the flocks. To all of these he received terse answers.

Presently the Scotchman turned.

"It's little you be knowin' of sheepin', sir."

The remark was made with so much simplicity that it could not have been
mistaken for rudeness.

"Very little."

"Keep it to yourself, man," was the laconic advice the Highlander tossed
over his shoulder as he transferred his attention to his horses.

Mr. Clark bit his lip to hide a smile.

"What is your name, my lad?" he asked suddenly.

"Sandy McCulloch, sir,