On the sandy shore of the river below the eddy, they found the American
and his party gathered, with their stuff ranged about them ready for the
canoes.
"Ah, here you are, sir," said the American, advancing hat in hand. "And
this is your son, the young rascal who came mighty near giving me heart
failure this morning. By the way, I haven't the pleasure of knowing your
name."
"My name is Richard Dunbar, and this is my son Barry."
"My name is Osborne Howland, of Pittsburgh, and this is my daughter
Paula. In bloomers, as you see, but nevertheless my daughter. Meet also
my friend and partner, Mr. Cornwall Brand."
The party exchanged greetings, and spent some moments giving utterance
to those platitudes which are so useful in such circumstances, a sort of
mental marking time preparatory to further mutual acquaintance.
The girl possessed that striking, dashing kind of brunette beauty that
goes with good health, good living, and abundance of outdoor exercise.
She carried herself with that air of assured self-confidence that comes
as the result of a somewhat wide experience of men, women and things.
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