Two were poised on narrow boards notched into the tree a man's height
from the ground, and one was huge and swarthy, so that the heavy axe he
held seemed a toy in his great gnarled hand. The other, whose figure
seemed in some respects familiar, stooped a little with the bright axe
blade laid flat in one palm as though he were examining it, and
Deringham, who could not see his face, turned towards another who sat
at the foot of the tree sharpening a big saw. His overalls were in
tolerable repair, while from an indefinite something in his face and
the way he wore them Deringham set him down as an Englishman. Still,
he did not think he was an Alton.

"Can you tell me where Mr. Henry Alton is?" he said. The young man
nodded. "Harry!" he said.

Then the man on the plank above turned round, and Deringham felt
inclined to gasp as he stood face to face with the new heir to Carnaby.
The man was grimed with dust and ashes. His blue shirt rolled back to
the shoulders left uncovered arms that were corded like a smith's, and
was rent at the neck so that Deringham could see the finely-arched
chest. The overalls, tight-belted round the waist, set off the
solidity of his shoulders and the leanness of the flank, while with the
first glance at his face Deringham recognized the teamster who had
driven them through the bush.

He stood poised on the few inches of springy redwood looking down upon
him with a grimly humorous twinkle in his eyes, but through the smears
of perspiration and the charcoal grime Deringham now recognized the
expression of quiet forcefulness and the directness of gaze which was
his birthright.