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The Bail Jumper

by Robert J. C. Stead · English · Gutenberg #35836 · 382,565 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Bail Jumper

Author: Robert J. C. Stead


        
Release date: April 14, 2011 [eBook #35836]
                Most recently updated: September 19, 2011

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/35836

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        Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BAIL JUMPER ***




Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net









THE BAIL JUMPER

BY

ROBERT J. C. STEAD




LONDON
T. FISHER UNWIN
ADELPHI--TERRACE




_First published in_ 1914.

[_All rights reserved._]




CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I--A FRIEND AND AN ENEMY
  CHAPTER II--SECRETS OF SUCCESS
  CHAPTER III--TWO ON THE TRAIL
  CHAPTER IV--CROTTON'S CROSSING
  CHAPTER V--UNDER SUSPICION
  CHAPTER VI--THE ARM OF THE LAW
  CHAPTER VII--ONLY A BARNARDO BOY
  CHAPTER VIII--A MYSTERIOUS ACQUAINTANCE
  CHAPTER IX--A FUGITIVE
  CHAPTER X--PLAYING THE GAME
  CHAPTER XI--A FRIEND IN NEED
  CHAPTER XII--LOVE--OR LAW?
  CHAPTER XIII--GROPING
  CHAPTER XIV--THE SACRIFICE OF SILENCE
  CHAPTER XV--STILL PLAYING THE GAME
  CHAPTER XVI--KIT MCKAY
  CHAPTER XVII--THE HOMESTEAD LINE
  CHAPTER XVIII--RIGHT ABOUT FACE!
  CHAPTER XIX--THE LIGHT AT LAST




THE BAIL JUMPER




CHAPTER I--A FRIEND AND AN ENEMY


    "We have felt the cold of winter--cursed by those who know it not--
    We have braved the blizzard's vengeance, dared its most deceptive
       plot;
    We have learned that hardy races grow from hardy circumstance,
    And we face a dozen dangers to attend a country dance;
    Though our means are nothing lavish we have always time for play,
    And our social life commences at the closing of the day;
    We have time for thought and culture, time for friendliness and
       friend,
    And we catch a broader vision as our aspirations blend."

                                                     _Prairie Born._

The short winter day was at an end. The gloom of five-o'clock twilight
gathered about the frost-shrouded team and the farm sleigh which
crunched complainingly behind. For twenty miles the team had plodded,
steadily, laboriously--their great heads undulating with their gait,
through the snow-blocked roads. The two fur-clad men had long ago
dropped all attempt at conversation, and an occasional swing of their
arms, in an effort to revive the chilled circulation, was the only
evidence that the vital spark still burned in their deep-bosomed bodies.

Suddenly a shape loomed through the grey mist of the night. The horses
lurched back upon the double trees, their trace-chains clattering with
the slack. The shape took form; a frightened team were seen plunging in
the deep snow by the roadside; the vehicles interlocked.

"What d'ye mean by crowdin' me off the road like that?" cried an angry
voice, as a man's form rose in the opposing cutter.

"I didn't crowd you off," returned the driver of the sleigh. "It was
your own reckless speed that got you into trouble. See, man, your nigh
horse is down; I'm thinkin' he needs your attention more than me."

"But it's you will have it first," came the savage reply, as the speaker
sprang from the cutter on to the side of the sleigh. But almost before
he landed a great bear-like arm shot out, and the assailant would have
fallen in a crumpled mass beside his struggling horses, had not the same
arm jerked him forward into the sleigh.

In the deep gloom the two men thrust their faces close, then drew
suddenly back.

"And what way is this to greet a neighbour on the public road, Hiram
Riles?" demanded the driver of the sleigh. "Ye'll have strange tales for
the wife to-night, I'm thinkin', by the breath o' you. Away home with
ye, and mind the road. It's no fit night for a man in your shape,
Hiram."

The other murmured thickly, "I'm all right," but showed no further
belligerent tendencies; and when the team had been extricated from their
entanglement and set upon the road again, the two old-timers parted in
their opposite directions.

"It's a sore temptin' o' Providence for a man to venture on the country
roads a winter's night without all his senses, Raymond," said the elder
man, as they drove on. "See ye're no guilty of it. There's many a
tragedy blamed to the climate that's begun in the gin-shop."

Already the town lights were peering mistily through the haze, and in a
few minutes the sleigh drew up at the door of Gardiner's general store.
The two men got out and lifted a trunk to the sidewalk, when the elder
resumed his seat in the sleigh.

"Hadn't you better put in the team and stay all night, father? The
horses are dog-tired, and it'll be better driving in the morning."

"No, Raymond. I'll push back as far as Mathesons', and spend the night
there. I'm no hand for stayin' in town. I'll be leavin' now, and mind,
boy, we're expectin' you to make good."

The two men grasped hands in a moment's clasp; the next, sleigh and
driver had disappeared in the night.

The young man stood on the sidewalk, in the momentary irresolution of
the stranger. He had been in Plainville before, and knew Mr. Gardiner by
sight; but then, he met him as a customer, and now it was to be as
employee. Overcoming his bashfulness, he pushed open the store door and
entered. The white glare of the gasoline lights revealed a boy of
twenty-one, sturdy and well set up, although of somewhat smaller stature
than the average in the country; with clean, weather-beaten face and
eyes accustomed to look squarely before them. The nose rose strong and
resolute from the cheeks, but in the quiet mouth there was a lurking
sadness suggestive of melancholy.

Raymond Burton unbuttoned his coat and threw back the collar, when a
cheery voice said, "Hello, Burton, you got in? Hardly expected you
to-night, the roads are so full. Throw off your coat and warm yourself,
and then go up to Mrs. Goode's boarding-house and make yourself at home.
I have arranged accommodation for you there. She is one of our best
customers, and she runs a good house."

There was nothing stand-offish about Gardiner. He met his employees on a
basis of friendship and equality, and had a ready way with him that was
continually swelling his list of customers, notwithstanding the
competition of the Sempter Trading Co., the oldest and strongest
mercantile firm in the town. Indeed, Gardiner was little more than a boy
himself, who, a few years before, had come up from one of the Eastern
Provinces to engage in business in the West.

Gardiner walked around to the boarding-house with Burton, after giving a
boy a quarter to deliver the trunk. Mrs. Goode, herself, answered the
bell. She was a sprightly, motherly woman, with a quick step, a ready
tongue, and a hearty laugh; hair that hinted of fifty, but a smile that
said she was twenty-five; and, withal, not entirely blind to her own
accomplishments.

"This is my new clerk, Mr. Burton, Mrs. Goode," said Gardiner. "I
brought him here because I knew the house you run. He has driven most of
the day, and just needs one of your hot suppers to make him feel the
luck he has in being one of Mrs. Goode's boarders."

"Well, I do give a good supper, if I say it myself," said Mrs. Goode.
"No hungry people in my house, if I know it. But you want to go to your
room. Alice, show Mr. Butler to room sixteen. Sweet sixteen, I call it,
and I always save it for the young men," she added, with a coquettish
glance at her new customer.

Alice Goode, aged eighteen, emerged from the dining-room, and Burton
having been introduced, as "Mr. Garden's new clerk," she demurely led
the young man upstairs. "I hope you will like your room," she said, and,
the business obligations of the situation discharged, continued, "Do you
dance?"

"Why, a little," Burton admitted. "But I never learned, properly. Just
country dances, you know."

"Gee, that's all is any good, anyway. None of your city camel-strides
for me, but a good turkey-in-the-straw alamen-lefter an' you can count
me in every trip. There's a hop on at Grant's to-night. Going?"

"I'm afraid I haven't an invitation, and I don't even know the people."

"That don't matter. There'll be some loads goin' out from town, an' you
better just roll into one of them. It's about five miles, an' the ride
will be dandy. Besides, Grant's are the best there is, an' you'll be as
welcome as a rich sinner in church. The hoe-down is in honour of their
niece, who has come out from the East, an's goin' to live with them.
They say she's pretty an' a swell singer. It'll be quite a show-ring
affair, I expect, but all to the good."

"Al-i-c-e!" cried her mother. "Set them good silver knives an' forks,
cause Mr. Burtle's here, an' get a two-step on yuh now or never a foot
will yuh go to the dance to-night."

Alice disappeared, and Burton was left to examine his quarters. They
were small and cheaply furnished, but comfortable enough. "At any rate,"
he soliloquised, "I shall not be very lonely, if Miss Alice is a sample
of Plainville society."

The smell from Mrs. Goode's supper table justified that lady's high
opinion of it. When Burton came in he was introduced to each boarder in
turn. There were two lady school-teachers, two bank clerks, a couple of
store employees, a young lawyer, and several who might be termed "not
classified." A spirit of good fellowship prevailed, and Burton was
surprised at the point to which banter was carried. Alice waited on the
table, while Mrs. Goode presided in the kitchen. Mr. Goode, a tall,
cadaverous man, moved shyly about the house, in which he occupied a
minor position. It was understood that Mrs. Goode held him in much
disfavour on account of his emaciated appearance, which she felt to be a
reflection upon her boarding-house.

"How can I expect to prosper when I have a walkin' sign-post like that?"
she lamented to her neighbour, Mrs. O'Brien.

"Fade him on breakfast food with a little 'barm' in til't," was that
honest woman's advice.

After supper Burton was reading in his room, when a knock came at the
door, and Gardiner burst in.

"Say, Burton, come with me to the dance at Grant's to-night," said the
visitor. "I'm driving out in my cutter, and I want company. They're O.K.
people, and there's a new-comer out there we all want to see. As for an
invitation--well, I have instructions to see that all the desirables are
asked, and I figure you in that bunch. Come along. The sooner you get
acquainted here the better, both for yourself and from a business point
of view."

Burton surmised that the "business point of view" had a good deal to do
with most of Gardiner's attitudes, but he was glad enough to accept the
invitation. The drive, in a top cutter, behind a spirited team, was so
different from the dreary monotony of the afternoon that Raymond could
scarce believe it was the same country. There were many rigs on the
road, but the trail was banked so high (for in prairie countries the
winter roads rise high above the surrounding snow) that it was
impossible to pass, and before reaching Grant's the scattered rigs had
gathered into a long procession.

The Grant boys, George and Harry, were at the stable with lanterns, and
hurried about, exchanging greetings while they wrestled with frozen
tugs, and directed drivers blinking in the light. The young ladies
became the charge of Susy Grant, who bundled them in at the front door
of the house, while her brothers herded the swains into the kitchen, for
be it known, that while women may be ushered into parlour or bedroom,
the kitchen is the proper reception place for men. There they sit on
stools and wood-boxes, or crowd into corners, exchanging anecdotes or
revelling in amusement furnished by the wits of the countryside. Burton
was introduced by his employer to a few of the men and boys nearest by,
but none Waited for an introduction when there was occasion to speak.
They were a mixed company, some from the town, and others from the
country district in which the Grant homestead lay, but all were
acquainted and most were friends. Presently the door opened and a
new-comer ambled in; a strange human contrivance, half man, half boy,
who tripped over his long coat on the doorstep and projected himself in
a heap in the midst of the laughing crowd.

"Hello, London, what flew up an' hit you?" said one, as the boy
scrambled clumsily to his feet. "Been to town on your way over?"

"Hit's my bloomin' coat," explained London. "Hi fall w'en hever Hi try
to stand hup."

"Take it 'hoff,'" shouted the crowd, as London proceeded to remove his
outer garments. This operation revealed the fact that London, as the
Barnardo lad was popularly called, although a boy in stature, aspired to
the wearing of man's clothes, with the result that his trousers were
turned up almost to his knees and his coat hung down below them, the two
extremes meeting, as it were, about a foot from the floor. His
commodious boots had been recently blacked, and a heavy brass chain
stretched from pocket to pocket of his vest; but, most glorious of all,
was the bright red tie speared with a pin in the form of a horseshoe and
intended, doubtless, to indicate that its wearer was a sport of the
first blood.

"How did you get away to-night, London? Couldn't Riles find anything for
you to do?"

"'E could. 'E'll find work for them as comes to 'is funeral. But 'e's
comin' 'imself, an' has Hi was specially named in Missus Grant's
hinvitation"--this with an air of profound importance--"'e could 'ardly
'elp letting me come, 'specially has Hi said Hi would burn down the
'ouse hif they came with-hout me."

"Good boy, London," was the comment. "That's the way to bring him to
time."

"Hi drownded a pig hin the well one day 'e went to town an' wouldn't
take me," said London, proudly. "Hand another time----"

What happened another time was never made public, for at that moment Big
Jack McTavish, official caller-off and master of ceremonies at every
dance in the Plainville district for a dozen years, strode into the
dining-room and shouted, "Partners for the Circashyun Circle."

The men from the kitchen swarmed into the dining-room and parlour, which
had been cleared of carpets and furniture. The piano stood in the hall,
where it was presided over by Miss Green, the school-teacher; on a chair
alongside sat old Dave Cottrell, the fiddler, who had spent the
sixty-odd years of his life in struggle to draw the maddening music from
his violin, and had succeeded in that, and in nothing else; along the
stairs, and in the bedrooms above, were crowded the girls and young
women. This was partners' dance, and in a few moments the floor was
crowded. Then the music struck up and the feet kept time, and the dance
had started. In the intricacies of the Circassian Circle every couple is
made to dance with every other couple, so that all have a chance to
exchange greetings before the first set is over, and it affords as
appropriate an opening selection as Old Hundred at morning service.
Before Big Jack's ample hands came together as a signal that the first
dance was ended the last atom of reserve had been swept away, and
everybody was in tune to make a night of it. Gardiner danced with every
lady in the room, from Alice Goode to little Miss Green, who was
persuaded to leave the piano for just one set, and even London found
young women who did not scorn his clumsy advances. The dances were
quadrilles, lancers, schottisches and reels, with an occasional waltz or
two-step just to indicate that if they did not give city dances the
place of prominence it was through choice, not ignorance.

Among the ladies was one whom Burton knew to be the guest of honour,
even before he was told; a young woman his own age, or older, dressed in
a creamy white, with a single real rose in her hair. Her dark, full
eye-lashes, the finely shaped nose and ears, the firm but sympathetic
mouth, electrically responsive to every wave of emotion of her alert
brain, were not lost upon the country youth. There were many graceful
dancers, many radiant, happy-faced girls, but hers was a grace distinct
from theirs and a happiness more subtle, more delightful, more
pervading. The little tricks of speech which distinguish between the
intelligent and the well-educated; the little delicate courtesies which
distinguish between the well-meaning and the well-bred; the inborn and
self-effacing refinement which is the touchstone of true culture--these
were evidenced in every word, every motion, every gesture. Burton forgot
about dancing, forgot that he was expected to dance, as he drank in a
music unheard by the less discerning ears about him, and revelled in an
intoxication not of wine. It was not until Gardiner came to his corner
and, with a friendly slap, said, "Burton, old man, get up and dance.
What are you moping for?" that he was recalled to his surroundings.

"I'm not moping; just dreaming," he said, springing to his feet.

"Never dream while you are awake; it doesn't pay. There's Alice Goode;
she has glanced your way a dozen times--and there's worse girls than
Alice."

Burton took the hint, and in a few moments was threading his way through
the meshes of a quadrille amid the pepsin aroma of the sweet Alice. He
discharged his obligation with credit, thanked his partner courteously,
and retired into his corner until supper was called at midnight.

Mrs. Grant supervised the work in the kitchen, while willing, although
not always skilful, hands assisted in the distribution of the
refreshments. This was the stage of the evening's entertainment at which
the social spirit flowed highest; men and women, boys and girls, sat or
stood about in disorganised groups, eating sandwiches, cake and pie, and
consuming great cups of hot coffee, the while sharpening their wits at
each other's expense and joining as heartily in the laugh when it
happened to be at their own.

A middle-aged gentleman whose appearance stirred some old memory in
Burton, seeing the young man seated a little by himself, came over and
engaged in conversation.

"If my old eyes do not deceive me, you are a son of John Burton's," said
he.

"I am Raymond Burton. And you--surely I should remember you?"

"Man, man, I know your father like my own brother. Sure you've heard him
speak of Dick Matheson? We shantied together on the Muddywaski, and a
better man than John Burton never rode a log in the Ottaway country,
which is sayin' a good deal. I do not see you dancin' much. I'm thinkin'
you will have your father's quiet way; like a sleepy kitty, he was, when
left alone, but a roarin' lion when put to the bit. But times are
changed, and men win more now with soft speech than we did with hard
knuckles. And whichever the game, a Burton should be to the fore.
Grant," he said, addressing the head of the house, as he was about to
pass, "this is Raymond Burton. I knew his father on the Muddywaski." To
honest Dick Matheson no further credentials seemed necessary.

"Glad to meet you," said Mr. Grant, cordially. "Have you been introduced
to my niece? Dear me, I'm afraid the reception committee are too busy
with the sandwiches. Myrtle, just a moment," as the young lady emerged
from an eddy of humanity, "let me present Mr. Burton. Mr. Burton--Miss
Vane," and the two elder gentlemen allowed themselves to be swept into
the vortex of the crowd.

Miss Vane took Burton's hand in a friendly grip--a grip that was not
afraid to speak of the soul behind it. "I am a stranger here, and I meet
so many people, but I shall remember you," she said in quiet, musical
tones, in such striking contrast, Burton thought, to the strident
country voices about him.

"I am a stranger too," the young man answered for want of a better thing
to say.

"Then we at least have something in common," said Miss Vane, and it
occurred to Raymond that he had said the best thing possible.

In a moment the young lady was claimed by other guests. But Burton was
satisfied.

When supper was over and the conversation began to lag, some one
suggested that Miss Vane should sing. The proposal was received with
applause.

"If it will give you any pleasure," said the young lady. Miss Green
resumed her seat at the piano, and in a few moments human tones such as
never before had been heard in Plainville district filled the sturdy
house from kitchen to attic. Deep, melting, melodious tones--the cultured
expression of the greatest musical instrument God Himself could
devise--the human voice! To what degrading uses it is so often put! She
sang, not the popular airs of the day, nor classical selections beyond
the ken of her audience, however dear to herself, but the old Scotch
songs which are strong enough to force a way to the roughest intellect,
yet fine enough to stir the slightest chord in the galaxy of human
accomplishment; deep enough to send men raging to battle and gentle
enough to croon little children to sleep. As she wandered on and on,
through the heroic, the pathetic, the tenderly sentimental, the dancers
sat in the rapture of a spell as new to them as the angel chorus to the
shepherds of Palestine, and when at last the low voice poured forth the
sanctified lament of "The Land o' the Leal," Big Jack's wife went
sobbing to the kitchen, and Mrs. Grant slipped a motherly arm around
little Mrs. Dale, whose misty eyes were seeing a year-old mound and a
little white slab that stared stolidly through the snow:

    "Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean,
    She was baith gude and fair, Jean,
    And oh, we grudged her sair,
      Tae the Land o' the Leal."

Even London forgot to dangle his watch-chain, and his employer, Riles,
who had sold his soul to Mammon twenty years ago, laughed quietly at the
tear on the boy's cheek.

When the singer had finished, and the spell was broken by the
commonplace talk which someone always finds necessary to introduce on
such occasions, Dick Matheson got up and said, "We have all listened to
Miss Vane with great delight, and feel that she is no longer a stranger
among us. But we have another stranger here to-night, and it is but fair
that we should hear him too. Burton, let's hear from you. Your father
could sing 'The Death of Jimmie Whalen' with any man in the shanties. I
knew his father on the Muddywaski," he explained.

Burton blushed and made excuses, but a popular suggestion in such a
company is tantamount to a command. Surrendering to the inevitable, he
arose, saying, "I do not sing at all, but I will repeat some verses, if
you insist."

"We insist," came the chorus, and, when silence was secured, he began in
a strong, human voice, lacking the finish of culture, but vibrant with
sympathy with the spirit of the poem:

    "This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,
      Sails the unshadowed main--
      The venturous bark that flings
    On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings
    In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings----"

He had not repeated four lines until he discovered that he had made a
mistake. The soul may respond to music it cannot comprehend, as a rusty
wire may thrill with vibrations from the throat of a Melba, but the mind
of man makes no answer to poetry beyond its grasp. Burton was forcing
himself against an immovable resistance; projecting a thought, live,
warm, charged with the germs of a million inspirations, against a stone
wall of mental vacuity. And yet he was sustained, as in an electric coil
a single wire thinner than a human hair may support the current that
flashes on two oceans at once, and he proceeded. In the second stanza
his eyes met Miss Vane's, and heaven was opened before him. She
understood! Her mind was pacing the "caves of thought" with his; her
mentality was producing the current that he transformed into speech. He
remembered the advice of a great orator--"Speak to one soul in your
audience, and forget all others," and he obeyed. Not again did he look
at Miss Vane; he dared not double-circuit the delicate current that
carried him on, but he poured forth the solemn cadences of Holmes' great
poem with a fire and enthusiasm that commanded the attention of the
company until, focusing his energy in the last stanza, the walls
trembled with the vibrations of his intensity:

    "Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
      As the swift seasons roll;
      Leave thy low-vaulted past!
    Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
    Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
      Till thou at length art free,
    Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea."

There was a clapping of hands, which Burton knew to be a courtesy rather
than a compliment, and Susy Grant went so far as to say that it was a
very nice piece. Matheson justified all by repeating that he "knew his
father on the Muddywaski," but the young man cared not what they said or
thought. For a dozen years he had spent the long winter evenings on the
farm in reading and self-culture, thereby opening to himself a door
through which none of these could follow. None--save one. And she had
followed. She understood!

The dancing was then revived, more vigorously, if possible, than in the
earlier part of the evening. Burton noticed that Gardiner twice engaged
Miss Vane as his partner, but himself did not dare claim so great a
boon. He was but a country boy, and Gardiner was a town man, a business
man, and--his employer.

Before the dance broke up a laugh was caused by the discovery of London
in the kitchen, deep amid the sandwiches and pie.

"You must be hungry, London," said one of the young men, as a group
gathered round him.

"You bet Hi ham," answered the lad, unabashed. "Hi 'aven't 'ad wot you'd
call a decent meal hin a month."

"Fill your pockets, then; there's lots there," was the good advice
given, which London proceeded to take.

At the back of the group was a coarse, animal-looking man, with heavy,
scowling features and an eye whose natural repulsiveness was heightened
by a deep scar along the brow, which caused the livid eye-lids to loop
outward as they approached the nose. He noted the incident, and as he
heard the conversation a look of malignant hate deepened in the glaring
eyes, and the mouth twitched in a brutal lust for revenge. It was Riles.

At last it was time to go home, and the gathering broke up. Gardiner
lingered a moment with Miss Vane, and Burton proceeded to the stable. On
the way he passed near by the Grant summer-house, now little more than a
great mound of snow. Through his fur covering he fancied he heard a
strange noise; he turned down the collar, and listened. Unmistakable
sounds of violence, of muffled cursing, of hard, short breathing, came
from beyond the summer-house. Burton ran in that direction, and the
gibbous moon which now shone dimly through the scattering clouds
revealed a form in the snow and another above kicking viciously,
endeavouring to sink the heavy boots in the face of the fallen man. As
the victim threw up his arms to protect his face he received the blows
in the chest, driving the breath from his lungs in great gasps. Burton,
seeing how desperate was the situation, rushed upon the assailant, and,
crossing his arms about the other's neck, gripped his throat in a
strangle-hold that sent him to his knees in a moment. Every effort to
break loose was vain; the vital supply of air was shut off, and in a few
seconds the big frame rolled helplessly in Burton's arms. The muscles
relaxed, the head fell back, the face turned up to the pale light of the
moon, and the eyes, glaring and misshapen, glared into his. It was
Riles.

London, seeing help at hand, sent up a lusty shriek, and in a few
minutes a big crowd had gathered about the combatants. Gardiner hurried
to Burton's side and whispered, "Let him go, that's not what I hired you
for." Burton released his grip and Riles fell in the snow, London
sending up a fresh series of shrieks when he saw his oppressor again at
liberty. The big man soon recovered himself and scrambled to his feet,
and the crowd rapidly dispersed. But before Riles went he found occasion
to hiss in Burton's ear, "You got the drop on me that time, young
meddler, but I'll square it with ye yet, if I do murder for it."

Burton laughed, but the words left an unpleasant taste.




CHAPTER II--SECRETS OF SUCCESS


    "I envy no man what he fairly wins;
      In life's hard battle each must fight his fight;
    But some, methinks, are honoured for their sins,
      And some ignored because they do the right;
    Some seem to find their fortune ready-made,
      And others miss it, howsoe'er desired--
    The man's a fool who thinks that he can grade
      Society by what it has acquired:
    The noblest souls are often least renowned;
      In humble homes God's greatest men are found."

                                                     _Prairie Born._

A month's experience in the general store business brought much new
light to Burton. He had imagined that a man who stood behind the
counter, wearing good clothes, talking pleasantly to ladies and joking
with men, commencing work at eight in the morning and quitting, well, he
didn't just know when--such a man surely was a favoured individual. He
had contrasted a business career with life on the farm: Up at five;
breakfast by lamplight; cows and horses to care for in evil-smelling
stables; innumerable chores before the day's work was properly begun;
then the long, heavy labour, in crackling frosts, in suns that burned
the flesh like a searing iron, in miserable, damp, murkiness; in dust
laden winds that filled the eyes and choked the lungs, in all the
numberless vagaries of climate; the coarse clothing demanded by such a
vocation; the plain fare and simple home comforts; and then, tired to
the point of exhaustion, bed, which was alike the end of one day's
labours and the starting point of another round of continuous toil,
irksome and often ill-requited. Such comparisons had, to some extent,
influenced his decision to seek his future in a life of commercial
activity; and, while he had not admitted any regret, there now were
nights when he felt that a good day's labour in the harvest field or on
the plough would be a welcome and refreshing diversion. He had not
guessed that a business career demanded so much physical energy; it was
a new discovery to him that the closing of a difficult sale was more
exhausting than forking to the top of a stack. Nevertheless, he had set
his hand to the plough, and he was determined to finish the furrow, and
the very knowledge that physical energy played so great a part in the
commercial battle of the age came to him as an encouragement and a fresh
hope. But where bodily strength and a fair degree of intelligence might,
unaided, win success in agricultural pursuits, he had discovered that
another element was absolutely essential in the business world. It was
tact. No energy was sufficiently indomitable, no brain sufficiently
farseeing and alert, to win success in the surroundings in which he now
found himself without the magic touchstone of tact. Energy,
intelligence, and tact; these three, but the greatest of these is tact.

It was in the middle of winter, the dull season after the Christmas
trade, and before the spring activity begins, and Gardiner had allowed a
higher priced clerk to go, believing that he could handle all the
business with the assistance of Burton. This, although it entailed more
work, was to the young man's advantage, as it brought him into close and
almost constant contact with his employer, and forced him to attempt
many things that he would otherwise have left to more experienced hands.
Already he found it unnecessary to summon Gardiner when a lady asked for
three-quarters of a yard of velvet, cut on the bias; could discuss the
merits of Dongola and calf with the assurance of an expert, and tell at
a glance whether goods would "wash." But there were other things he
found more difficult to learn.

Mrs. Mandle was in search of cotton--good, strong cotton, not too dear.
Burton showed her an eight-cent web which he thought conformed to her
specifications. After a lengthy examination, the good lady admitted that
it satisfied her in some ways, but not in others. "The price is about
what I wanted," she said, "but the quality is very poor."

"Indeed, we have sold a great deal of that cotton, and it seems to give
good satisfaction."

"Oh, so it might, for some work, but it hardly suits me. I guess I will
just step around to the Sempter Trading Company and see what they can
let me have."

"Well, look at this," said Burton, producing another web.

"Yes, that's about what I wanted. And what will the price on that be?"

"Ten cents."

"Ten cents! What a dreadful price for a piece of cotton. My, everything
is getting so dear, I can't see what we farmers are comin' to. Mrs.
Winters sent to Winnipeg for hers, and you ought to see it--the very
loveliest cotton, and only six and a half cents, and a box of slate
pencils thrown in for the children. No, dear me, I couldn't pay such a
price as that. I might, yes, I would be willing to pay eight cents for
it, the same as the other, now, an' you're makin' a good profit on it at
that."

"I am sorry, Madam," said Burton, trying not to be annoyed at her
attempt to take charge of the firm's business, "but our prices are as
close as we find it possible to handle the goods, especially on staples
like cotton. That is a really good article; may I cut off the amount you
require?"

"Yes, at eight cents----"

Burton returned his scissors to his pocket, and the lady started for the
door, when Gardiner, who had finished with his customer and stood
listening to the dialogue, called her back.

"Don't be in a hurry, Mrs. Mandle," he said, in a winning voice that
appealed to the lady's instinct for flattery, "there is a web here that
Mr. Burton didn't know about, and perhaps it will suit you."

Gardiner went behind the counter and pulled out the very eight-cent
piece that had been already shown.

"Now here is a ten-cent line that I can recommend to you," he said,
leaning well across the counter and speaking in a confidential voice.
Burton was about to point out his mistake, when something in the eye of
his employer warned him that the transaction had been taken out of his
hands. "This is a regular ten-cent line, and extra value at that, but I
got something a little special on it by taking an unusual quantity from
the factory at one time. Of course, we generally figure when we get a
snap on a purchase that at least part of the bargain should be ours, but
with an old and valued customer like you hard and fast rules don't
always apply. It's something I really should not do, but under the
circumstances I will let you have anything up to twenty yards off this
web for eight cents."

Mrs. Mandle beamed with pleasure. "That's like you, Mr. Gardiner, I
always find that I can deal with you. Not that I have anything against
this young man----" she continued, as though anxious not to place Burton
in an unfavourable light.

"Oh, that's all right," laughed Gardiner. "Mr. Burton has general
instructions applying to our regular customers, but when he knows you
better he will meet your requirements as well as I do, I am sure. Now
shall it be twenty yards?"

"I only wanted twelve," Mrs. Mandle confessed, "but since it is what you
might call a bit of a bargain, I believe I will just take the twenty."

Gardiner smiled genially and measured off the cloth, but Burton observed
that as he did so he had a crook in each thumb, which allowed about a
half an inch of over-lap on each yard measured. Mrs. Mandle paid for her
purchase, and left with a smile to Gardiner and a friendly nod to
Burton, and said she would probably be in in a few days with a case of
eggs and some other produce.

"Bring them right in here, Mrs. Mandle," said Gardiner, as he closed the
door after her. Coming back to the counter, he said to Burton,
half-apologetically, "I forgot to tell you, Burton, to put up all prices
on Mrs. Mandle. She is one of those dear souls who, as a matter of
principle, will never buy unless they think they are getting some
concession in price. It's a simple matter to raise the price and drop it
again, and it pleases them."

Burton flushed a little. He had been brought up to believe that strict
honesty was the best policy, and it seemed to him that the very
foundations of his conception of business success were being swept away.
These great merchant princes, who were lauded in the papers and welcomed
in the most distinguished circles, were they men of high standards and
noble principles, or were they consummate liars and cheats?

"I do not mean to question your methods," he said, at length, "but--is
it, such a transaction as that, I mean, exactly honest?"

If he expected Gardiner to be angry at his frankness his fear was soon
dispelled.

"Why not?" laughed his employer. "The cotton is ours; we can sell it for
what we like, can't we? If we ask fifty cents for it that's our
business, or if we choose to give it away, that's our business. These
people who are always trying to beat us down really don't mean any harm,
and we don't do them any harm. We just make them happy. Take Mrs.
Mandle, for instance. She thinks she saved forty cents, and that thought
will lighten her troubles for a week. As a matter of fact, she bought
eight yards more than she needed, but no doubt it will come handy
sometime."

"I think I would give a real cut, if I pretended to," persisted Burton.

"You can't afford to. See, that ten-cent cotton costs me six and
three-quarter cents. You may think I could sell at eight and get out on
it. I can't. Let me explain my position, so you will understand it
better. Last year I sold thirty-seven thousand dollars worth of goods.
My net profits were four thousand five hundred dollars, or just about
thirteen per cent. Now, no matter what an article may cost me, if I give
fifteen per cent. off the established selling price, I am losing money.
Isn't that clear? And as some people have the bargain mania, we have to
give them fictitious bargains, just as the doctor prescribes fictitious
drugs for patients who think they can't get well unless they take
something."

Burton said no more, but he was not convinced.

A few days later a customer asked for a pound of fifty-cent black bulk
tea. Burton found the fifty-cent bin empty. "I'm sorry," said he, "but
we appear to be out of the fifty-cent line. How would this suit?" and he
was about to offer another brand when Gardiner, who had overheard the
remark, called across the store, "That's fifty-cent tea in the left-hand
bin."

Now the left-hand bin contained thirty-five cent tea, and Burton knew
it.

To refuse to fill the order from the bin indicated would amount to
resigning his position, yet he was determined not to take advantage of
any customer. For a moment he hesitated. Then he weighed the tea out of
the thirty-five cent bin, but he gave the customer a pound and seven
ounces.

Under the grocery counter were a number of swinging standards on which
sugar and salt barrels were swung in and out as desired. The reserve
supply was kept in a warehouse at the back, and on a quiet day it
occurred to Burton to bring in a number of barrels and fill all the
standards. Gardiner observed him and suggested that the barrels should
be left outside until needed. Burton answered that he thought it would
be an advantage to have them in; besides, it was damp in the shed, and
the sugar showed some disposition to cake, while the salt became very
hard.

"Yes," admitted Gardiner, "but it will weigh two per cent. more as it is
than after it stands in here for a week, and we handle sugar on less
than five per cent."

In selling a gallon of coal oil Burton discovered that the oil pump
brought rather less than a gallon at a stroke. He reported the matter,
thinking the pump needed repairing.

"How much do you estimate it is running short?" asked his employer.

"About five per cent."

"That's too bad. It should be ten."

"But surely you don't mean to short-measure our customers? When we sell
a gallon, we sell a gallon, do we not?"

"Theoretically, yes. But some things do not work out in practice quite
the same as in theory. Look here, Burton," and Gardiner's voice took on
a serious tone, "I have sold coal oil for ten years, for myself and
others, and in all that time I have never opened a barrel that gave the
merchant full measure. If he gets off with a ten per cent. loss he can
consider himself lucky. I have seen barrels that were quite empty, yet
we had to pay for full measurement. It's all very well to have
principles and theories, but what are you to do when you are face to
face with such conditions?"

"Raise the price until it will show a profit, but give full
measurement."

Gardiner laughed. "You wouldn't sell a barrel in a year," he said. "The
public would refuse to pay your price. They would rather be cheated, and
not know it, than pay an honest price, and know it. The public bring
these things upon themselves. They place a premium upon dishonesty. They
will actually coax a man to lie to them. Tell a man, or better still, a
woman, that you are selling a two dollar article for a dollar, and she
will fight her way to the counter; but tell her the truth, that you are
selling an article worth a dollar for a dollar, and she will pass your
store in search of a merchant who has fictions more to her liking. If
the public want us to play fair, why do they refuse to set the example,
or at least show some appreciation of fair treatment? They are never
tired of telling of the dishonesty of their merchants; I could relate
deeds of trickery resorted to by customers which make the devices we
practise look like the harmless sport of little children. But, to return
to the subject, we could adulterate the coal oil and give them full
measurement, if that would please you better."

"But isn't adulteration against the law?"

"So are turkey raffles."

Burton winced. He had attended one of these country gatherings the
previous evening, and come home considerably lighter in pocket although
without any feathered trophies.

"I do not mean to be personal," Gardiner said, kindly enough. "I merely
want to show that, after all, the law takes very little notice of the
man who steals in a gentlemanly way. Robbery is an art, and it is the
crude thief that gets into trouble."

"Speaking of adulteration reminds me of one of my employers, who was a
druggist as well as a general store keeper. He was an honest,
well-intended fellow, but he didn't propose to let any one get very much
the better of him. Now it happened that the rural municipality required
a thousand ounces of strychnine, put up in half-ounce bottles, for
gopher poison. The drug at that time was worth fifty-eight cents an
ounce wholesale, and when the council came to the boss for his price he
quoted seventy-five cents, which was not unreasonable, seeing that he
had to furnish the bottles and labels and do the bottling--not a job to
be desired. But these councillors, being anxious to safeguard the
interests of their good friends the ratepayers, and incidentally give a
lesson in good bargaining, sent to the city for prices. When they came
back and told the boss they could get their supply for sixty cents I
expected he would tell them to go and get it, and to make certain other
calls while they were about it, but he just laughed and said if the city
firm could do it for that he guessed he could, and he took the order.
And he cleared three hundred dollars on that transaction."

"How could that be possible, if the strychnine cost him fifty-eight
cents, and he sold for sixty?" queried Burton.

"Because Epsom salts cost him four cents a pound and the gophers never
knew the difference."

Both men laughed, and at that moment the store door opened, and a
farmer, furred and frost covered, struggled in with a case of eggs.

"Where will you have the eggs, Mr. Gardiner?" he called, kicking the
door shut with his heel.

"Just set the case down, Mr. Mandle, we will attend to them," but the
obliging Mr. Mandle insisted on carrying it to the rear of the store.

"The missus will be in in a minute, an' fight it out with ye," announced
Mr. Mandle. "She got off at the post-office. She's wantin' a bit coat,
an' she's been writin' to the city for prices, an' I'm thinkin' she's
expectin' an answer to-day. But just let me have half a pound of
MacDonald chewin' an' she can do as she likes with the rest."

In a few minutes Mrs. Mandle appeared, and was promptly taken in hand by
Gardiner. The selling of the coat was, as he expected, a difficult
matter, but she was finally persuaded that a regular $24.50 coat at $20
was good buying. The price-tag, which Gardiner had deftly slipped off
the coat before showing it, was marked $18.

"I suppose it isn't necessary to ask you," said the merchant, after the
purchases had been wrapped up, "but, just to assure ourselves, those
eggs are all quite fresh, aren't they?"

"Fresh? My goodness, there isn't one of them ten days old. Our hens are
laying wonderful for this time of the year."

"That's what comes of understanding poultry," remarked Gardiner. But as
soon as his customer was gone he told Burton to take the eggs down to
the cellar and candle them.

"She sold me a six-pound block of ice in a tub of butter once, and I've
watched her ever since," he explained.

When Burton had finished his task he reported.

"Two dozen and a half bad, and six dozen short. There were two layers
without any eggs in them."

Gardiner made a rapid calculation. "Eight-and-a-half times thirty--is
two-fifty-five. And I did her two dollars on the coat. There's
fifty-five cents coming to me yet."

"What shall I do with the bad eggs, Mr. Gardiner?" asked the clerk.

"Put them under the counter and sell them to the restaurants," were the
instructions.

"That last barrel of vinegar seems to be very strong," remarked Gardiner
one day.

"I should say it is," Burton agreed. "I took down a quart for Mrs. Goode
yesterday, and she said it was the strongest she had ever bought since
she came West."

No more was said on the subject, but in the afternoon Burton, who was
standing at the front of the store dreamily surveying the wintry
landscape, saw his employer tip the vinegar barrel on end, knock out the
faucet, substitute a funnel, and pour in two pails of water. At that
moment the merry sound of sleigh bells was heard, and a cutter and
dashing team swung down the street. Burton caught a hurried glimpse as
they passed. It was Mr. Grant and Miss Vane.

And then, by some strange law of telepathy or suggestion, the words went
throbbing through his brain:

    "Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
        As the swift seasons roll----"

The door opened, and with a smothered execration the young man turned to
wait on a lady who was quite sure that in the city three spools were
sold for ten cents.




CHAPTER III--TWO ON THE TRAIL


    "We have felt the April breezes warm along the plashy plains;
    We have mind-marked to the cadence of the falling April rains;
    We have heard the crash of water where the snow-fed rivers run,
    Seen a thousand silver lakelets lying shining in the sun;
    We have known the resurrection of the Springtime in the land,
    Heard the voice of Nature calling and the words of her command,
    Felt the thrill of Springtime twilight and the vague, unfashioned
       thought
    That the season's birthday musters from the hopes we had forgot."

                                                     _Prairie Born._

"Plainville has a sure-enough singer at last," declared Alice Goode to
her mother the morning after the Grant party.

"That'll be the new-comer at Grand's," said Mrs. Goode, who had a
talent, amounting almost to genius, for mispronouncing proper names.

"You're on," Alice agreed. "I don't claim to be much of a judge of
warbles, but I like her samples."

"You'll be gettin' her into the choir, for the Grands are Presbyterians.
You want to speak to the minister about her, Alice."

"Sure I do, but it means war with Mrs. Fairley. She's led the choir so
long and so far she's sure to flare up at the prospect of a real singer
breakin' in. But I don't care. She only keeps me because she knows I
can't sing either. Here's where the fat goes into the fire."

Alice went to the telephone and called up the Rev. Andrew Guthrie.

"Hello--that you, Mr. Guthrie?--hello--Alice Goode speaking--yes--say, you
ought to been at Grant's dance last night--what's that?--Oh, that don't
matter--Me?--well, I just went on church business, rustlin' new chickens
for your flock, an' I caught one, a lulu--Mr. Grant's niece, an' she can
sing some. Say, Mr. Guthrie, you get after her to join the choir, before
the Methodists get busy.... No, don't leave it to Mrs. Fairley, she's
too jealous. Just get her to sing with us once, an' Mrs. Fairley can
come in or stay out, as the weather suits her.... Perhaps, but she's an
old crank, anyway. She spoils the effect of the sermons, an' that ain't
fair to you, Mr. Guthrie. That's why I go to dances instead of
prayer-meeting.... That's right, drive out and see her. She'll change
the look of those empty pews, or I'm no guesser."

Whether it was due to the doubtful compliments of this conversation or
the unquestionable sincerity which prompted Alice Goode's suggestion may
never be known, but the fact is that the Reverend Mr. Guthrie called
that afternoon on Mrs. Fairley, and deftly announced that a friend of
the Grants' was staying with them, and, he understood, would be willing
to take advantage of the facilities afforded by the choir. Now, Mrs.
Fairley, good woman, never attended anything so worldly as a dance, and
supposed that the recruit was some country girl anxious for a chance to
be seen by the congregation. She had no objection to an additional
worshipper in the choir--the meanest service of the Lord must not be
despised, Mr. Guthrie--so long as she proved bidable, Mr. Guthrie, and
did not spoil the effect of those who could sing. Armed with this
authority from the autocrat of the choir, Mr. Guthrie hitched up horse
and cutter and drove to the Grant homestead. It was a place where he
always found a warm welcome, and he would gladly have called oftener,
had it not been for the jealousy of some of his parishioners who
objected when he failed to visit them, and gave him little courtesy when
he did. He remained to tea, and, indeed, long after, and when at last he
drove home it was with feelings of mingled gratification and mistrust.

"Well, Mary," he announced, as his wife helped to remove his great-coat,
"I have found an addition for our choir. But I rather suspect that she
will soon be the choir, and the present members will constitute the
addition. Mrs. Fairley made two conditions; that the new-comer should
not spoil the music, and should be amenable to those in authority,
meaning herself. Both these conditions I will guarantee, but there are
cases when authority forsakes officials and returns to its original
source--the people. And when the congregation have heard Miss Vane sing,
they will insist on a change in the leadership of the choir."

"Oh, it may not be so bad as that," said his wife, always eager to
smooth the difficulties from the path of her over-worked and under-paid
husband.

"So good as that, you mean," exclaimed Andrew Guthrie, exultantly.

The next Sunday saw a new face in the choir, and the expectant glances
of the congregation indicated that a large percentage of Mr. Guthrie's
flock had not attained to the godliness of Mrs. Fairley, who eschewed
dances.

The opening hymn was announced, and before three bars were sung a buzz
of excitement was electrifying the congregation. At the end of the first
line Mrs. Fairley stopped and looked straight at Miss Vane. For ten
years, whenever Mrs. Fairley stopped singing, the music stopped, and so
accustomed had the organist become to this understanding, that she
expected always to double back when the familiar voice was no longer
heard. But this morning a new precedent was established. Mrs. Fairley
stopped, but the music went on. The new singer sang on, quite
unconscious of the epoch-making nature of her hardihood. For one full
line Mrs. Fairley remained silent, and in that brief space of time she
surrendered for ever the leadership of the choir of Plainville
Presbyterian church.

After the service Mrs. Fairley went to the minister. Her chagrin was
apparent, and it was evident that she blamed him for no small share of
her undoing.

"I think it was quite unnecessary to bring that young woman into the
choir," she said. "We were getting along very well, and the music was
all that Plainville desired."

"No one, surely, will complain of the music," said Mr. Guthrie, very
mildly, "but if this young woman wishes to take part in the singing, how
shall we despise even the meanest service of the Lord? And how shall we
avoid accepting that service? We must not ask her to remain away, and we
cannot ask her not to sing when we rise to worship Him with psalms and
hymns. It is, therefore, merely a question of whether she shall sing in
the choir or in the congregation."

This view of the situation was a bomb-shell to Mrs. Fairley. If Miss
Vane's presence in the choir was aggravating, in the congregation it
would become demoralising. As argument failed her she answered, hotly:

"Well, if the people don't want my singing, they won't have to listen to
it."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," said Mr. Guthrie. "We must all give what
service we can----"

But Mrs. Fairley had flounced down the aisle and out of the church.

So it came about that Miss Vane was officially declared leader of the
choir. Her position necessitated her coming to town twice on Sundays and
once during the week, and although her cousins were always glad enough
to drive her in, it was observed that Mr. Gardiner frequently relieved
them of the duty.

Burton, also, was afforded the opportunity of meeting Miss Vane at
church, and occasionally waiting on her in the store, but their
acquaintance developed slowly. He found himself while in her presence
hampered by a self-consciousness amounting to bashfulness. Thus, while
they frequently met at the rink, he had never asked her to skate. He
wondered whether she thought of him at all.

And so the winter wore on, and at length the spring was in the land. For
five months the wind had studiously avoided the south-west, but now it
fell into that favoured quarter, and the snow shrank before its balmy
breath. The sun beat down with June brilliancy; the creeks and ponds
filled with blue snow-water; the life that had lain dormant since
November stirred itself in sod, and flower, and leaf. In the town the
period of depression was followed by one of great activity; every
merchant, implement dealer, and tradesman was working under high
pressure to keep up with the demands of his customers. Gardiner's store
shared in the general prosperity; in fact, as the proprietor thought,
they were receiving rather more than their share. This meant busy days
for Burton and his employer, but both were eager for work, and from week
to week Gardiner postponed his intention of engaging another clerk. He
was well satisfied with Burton, and had freely congratulated himself
upon securing for a moderate wage a young man of so much value to his
store. But circumstances were already in the mould which were destined
to alter his opinion.

On an evening late in May, Gardiner left the store early, saying his
horse needed exercise, and as the day's work was practically over he
would go out for a drive. Burton remained to tidy the store and lock up,
but he noticed that Gardiner's horse took the well-known road to
Grants'.

As he was sweeping behind the counter a young woman entered the store,
and Burton, looking up, was surprised to see Miss Vane.

"I hope I am not too late, Mr. Burton. I have had a number of errands to
do for Aunty, and it always takes longer than one expects. I wonder if
you will let me have this small bill of groceries?"

"You are not too late; you are just in time," assured Burton, who felt
that the moment was the most opportune of the whole day.

He quickly filled the order, and said, "If you will tell me where your
buggy is, Miss Vane, I will take your packages around and put them in
it."

"Oh, I have no buggy this time, I'm walking."

"Walking! You surely do not intend to walk home with all these parcels?"

"They are not heavy, and besides, I am to walk only as far as Mrs.
Delt's. Harry will meet me there later in the evening. They are very
busy on the farm at present, and I told them it was quite unnecessary to
drive me to town."

Burton wrestled with his thoughts. Here, surely, was an opportunity to
offer a service which could be construed only as a business courtesy.

"If you can wait until I close the store--it will be only a minute--I
should be very glad to carry your parcels."

"Oh, that is too much--I could not expect you to do that."

"It is not too much--unless you say it is."

Miss Vane laughed. Hers was a quiet, mirthful laugh, like a vocal smile.

"If your offer is made as a kindness to me, I cannot accept it; if it is
your own desire, I cannot refuse."

"It is my desire," said Burton. There was no other answer, although he
felt that the reply shattered his theory about a business courtesy.

Soon they were walking gaily along the road leading out of the village.
This ran by the amusement grounds, where the young men of the town were
gathering for an evening's baseball practice. Burton and his companion
were not unnoticed.

The talk was of the commonplace: the weather, the seeding, the life of
town and country; Burton careful, discriminating in his speech; Miss
Vane frank, impetuous, but correct. They had almost reached Delt's when
the young woman, placing her fingers to her throat, uttered a cry of
dismay.

"I believe I've lost my brooch," she explained, in answer to Burton's
anxious inquiry. "It was a gift from Brother Harry, and----"

She found no words to express her emotion, which Burton knew to be
greater than she cared to admit.

"I don't think you need worry," the young man said. "The sun is just
setting, and we still have an hour of fair light. I noticed the brooch
when we left the store, so it must be on the road. I will hurry back and
find it."

"We will," she corrected.

Burton set the packages down a little way from the road, and the two
hurried back through the gathering twilight, keeping a keen look-out as
they walked. It was not until they were almost at the recreation grounds
that a faint glint in the dust attracted Burton's eye. He lifted the
precious trifle and restored it to the delighted owner, whose profuse
thanks called forth blushes that might be seen even in the dusk which
was now silently enwrapping all the familiar objects of the prairie and
roadside. Retracing their steps they walked more slowly; it became quite
dark, but a mild wind blew from the south-west, and there was just
enough eeriness in the situation to suggest the necessity of a man's
protection. Finally they arrived at Delt's gate, where Harry Grant and
young Mrs. Delt were awaiting Miss Vane with growing anxiety.

A horse and buggy swung past them as they left the main road, and Harry
Grant called out:

"Ah, here you are at last! And who is this? Why, I declare, if it isn't
our friend Burton. That accounts for the delay. 'In the spring a young
man's fancy,' you know."

Gardiner, returning from his fruitless drive to the Grants' home, heard
the words and recognized the voice.

And they troubled his sleep that night, and for many nights to come.




CHAPTER IV--CROTTON'S CROSSING


    "We have heard the cattle lowing in the silent summer nights;
    We have smelt the smudge-fire fragrance--we have seen the
       smudge-fire lights--
    We have heard the wild duck grumbling to his mate along the bank;
    Heard the thirsty horses snorting in the stream from which they
       drank;
    Heard the voice of Youth and Laughter in the long slow-gloaming
       night;
    Seen the arched electric splendour of the Great North's livid
       light;
    Read the reason of existence--felt the touch that was divine--
    And in eyes that glowed responsive saw the end of God's design."

                                                     _Prairie Born._

"Why don't you come out and see us sometime, Burton?"

It was Harry Grant speaking at the door of the store one evening early
in June.

"I should like to very much," was the reply, "but you see I am busy all
day."

"But not all night, surely. Come, you are ready to close up now, and I
am just going home. I guess I'll have to come back later in the night
for the vet.; he's out of town at present. Hustle round now, and lock
'er up, and I'll be here in a few minutes with the team."

"But I need a shave, and I'm just in my working garb."

"Nonsense; we're farmers at our house."

"Not all of you," said Burton, and was suddenly astonished at his own
temerity.

"Oh, that's how the land lies," said Harry, looking quizzically at the
other. "Well, if I had any ambitions in which a young lady figured,
which, by the way, doesn't seem to be in my line, I'd rather let her see
me in my working clothes than not at all. Besides, you are taking her at
the same disadvantage. Now, hustle; I'll be back in ten minutes."

As they drove out along the country road Harry remarked, as though the
thought had just occurred to him--

"Ever been out to Crotton's Crossing?"

"No, I haven't, though a quiet day there is one of the treats I promise
myself. Let's see; it's about ten miles from here, isn't it?"

"Twelve, and as fine a drive on a June Sunday as you could think about.
Myrtle has been coaxing me for a month to take her out, but when a
fellow pegs along all week on the farm he likes to lay up on Sundays."

This was rather unlike Harry, for it was well known that twelve hours a
day on the land were not enough to keep him off the baseball diamond in
the evening.

Burton made some remark about his old opinions of farm-work, and how
life in a store had led him to revise them, and was about to dismiss the
subject from his mind when Harry, avoiding his eye with a bashfulness
usually foreign to his nature, said:

"Well, haven't you got a thought?"

"Nothing to speak of," his friend admitted. "What would you like me to
think?"

"See here," said the other, "must I force an idea into your head with
these horny hands? You're bright enough on some subjects but denser than
hotel coffee on others. In brief: You want to spend a day at the
crossing; so does my cousin. Now do you see light?"

"Do you mean that I should ask her to go with me?" said Burton, almost
overwhelmed with the possibility.

"Oh no, not that you should. There's nothing compulsory about it, and if
you don't take her, no doubt some one else will. It's my guess that
Gardiner wouldn't need a second hint. But it's your privilege to invite
her. The worst she can do is refuse. And she won't do the worst,
either."

"But the choir?"

"Oh, fight that out with her; I'm not her guardian."

They drove in silence for some distance, their thoughts accompanied by
the rhythmic cadence of the jangling trace-chains. The sun was an hour
from the setting, and the golden glow of its oblique rays across the
prairies and over the fast-greening wheatfields shed an amber radiance
that danced along the trail. The shouts of men at their evening's
amusement, the lowing of cattle, the occasional bark of a dog, the far
off drumming of prairie chicken, came through the quiet stillness of the
air. When at last Burton spoke it was in a confidential note he had
never used since he had helped lay his mother in the hillside.

"Harry," he said, "men don't often talk of these things, but you've
guessed my great desire. I know I am foolish; it's unreasonable of me to
entertain such ambitions, but our great hopes, like our great sorrows,
come to us unbidden. I cannot help what I feel, but I hope I can help
what I do. I appreciate beyond expression the words you have said to me,
with all that they imply, but would it be fair, if, indeed, it were not
presumptuous, for one like me--I mean a boy, for I am nothing more, on a
small wage, and with no other means of support--would it be fair that I
should meddle in what every one will say are much more appropriate
arrangements?"

"You are referring to Gardiner," said Harry. "And in the first place, I
want you to know that every one will not say that that would be a more
appropriate arrangement. It may be true that you are young, that you
have your own way to make in the world, but all that is in your favour.
You are well educated; better than most town boys, for you have learned
to spend your idle hours to advantage, which they, as a rule, do not;
you have a good constitution and a clear conscience, and the girl who
isn't willing to face the battle of life with a companion so equipped
isn't worthy to be his wife. In this country women do not marry men who
have achieved distinction; in almost every case where wealth or honour
come, they come after marriage. If you think my cousin isn't wise enough
to know that in the battle of life as it must be waged in this great new
country a man's mental and physical equipment count for more than any
cash capital, you do her intelligence a grave injustice. But I want to
warn you that I am not speaking for her; I have not been given, and I
have not asked, her confidence in these matters. But I know Gardiner
well, and I know you a little, and I have my cousin's happiness
sufficiently at heart to say what I have said."

This was a remarkable speech for the young farmer, who usually disposed
of a subject in a sentence, and Burton felt that it was, indeed, a great
compliment to him. He knew that Harry had spoken in all sincerity; had
opened a corner of his heart to one who was little more than a stranger,
and he resolved to follow the cue he had been given.

Mrs. Grant, Susy Grant, and Miss Vane were in the garden as the young
men drove up. They greeted Burton cordially, and as Harry went to look
after his team entertained their visitor with a walk through the garden
and a discussion of the various flowers in which Mrs. Grant so much
delighted. Presently, however, the elder lady felt the night air
becoming chill, and, reminding Susy that the separator would be ready to
wash, entered the house, accompanied by her daughter.

"Oh, you haven't seen my pony, have you, Mr. Burton?" said Miss Vane.
"He's the dearest little fellow. Uncle gave him to me because he said he
couldn't have me walking to town and getting home at midnight, although
when he knew I had your protection he admitted that altered the
circumstances. I keep him in the pasture--the pony, you know. Shall we
walk over and see him? Then you can lead him home, and I will ride."

Nothing pleased the young man better, and in a few minutes they were
tripping along the well-beaten cowpath that led into the pasture. Night
was setting in, and when they reached the stream, girded with dense
willows, it was quite dark. The pony was not easily found, and several
times they approached cattle in mistake; but at length Miss Vane's call
brought his answering whinny, as he came running to her, through the
bushes.

"Now sir, I shall ride you home," she said, rubbing her pet's nose, "and
Mr. Burton will lead you. This is Mr. Burton, Frisky."

"But you have no saddle," said Burton.

"Surely I am westernised enough to ride without a saddle by this time,"
said the young woman, "especially as the gait is not to exceed a walk.
But I am afraid I shall have to have some assistance before we can
start."

She stood with her right arm over the pony's back. In the darkness he
seemed unusually tall.

For a lady in an ordinary habit to mount a horse, especially without the
assistance of a saddle, is a feat of some difficulty, as Burton
discovered before it was accomplished. As they journeyed slowly back to
the farmhouse the young man inquired if Miss Vane had ever been to
Crotton's Crossing.

"No, indeed, and they say it is one of the most delightful drives. I
have been at Harry a dozen times to take me, but he always has some
excuse, and George--well, I must admit that George seems to be more
interested in our friend Miss Green than in his little orphan cousin."

"I was wondering," said Burton, mustering all his resolution for the
task, "if you would accept an invitation to drive there with me next
Sunday?"

"One can never tell," said the young woman demurely.

"Tell what?" asked Burton, a little piqued at the irrelevance of the
remark.

"What one will do under certain circumstances, until the circumstances
occur."

"By which you mean?"

"Well, if I must be blunt, Mr. Burton, I cannot tell you whether I would
accept such an invitation until I receive it."

"Oh, I beg your pardon," said Raymond, and both laughed. "Miss Vane,
will you honour me with your company to Crotton's Crossing on Sunday?"

"Rather formal, but strictly correct," commented Miss Vane. "But there
is the choir----"

"Ah, yes, I had thought of that."

"And what solution had you discovered?"

"Not any, I fear."

"Under those circumstances it seems I will not be able----"

"Of course," Burton admitted, "they can't get along without you in the
choir."

"Do you think so? Well, that is too bad, because next Sunday--they'll
have to."

Sunday dawned, cloudless and warm. The rainy season had not set in in
earnest, and, although farmers complained, the liverymen were well
pleased that the roads were conducive to pleasure drives. A light wind
blew from the south-east, just fresh enough to keep the air in motion,
as at 9 a.m. Burton drove out of town with as good an equipage as the
place afforded. The fields wore a heavy coat of dark green grain, waving
in the breeze like ripples on a pond; the mirthsome gophers frolicked on
the road, and clear-voiced barnyard fowl rent the air with their morning
dissertations. As Burton drove up to the Grant farmhouse he was met by
Harry and George; the former in his working clothes, but his brother
dressed in his Sunday best.

"Wish I could get the fever too," lamented Harry. "Here's George with a
special engagement at church, and Susy tidying up for a caller, and
pretty cousin Myrtle putting the final tiffics on her fascination, while
I come down to the prosaic business of running milk through the
separator. But mind you, Burton, a word of warning. They say the road to
a popular resort is paved with good intentions. There's many in this
district will aver the road to Crotton's Crossing is paved with broken
hearts."

"Don't pay any attention to him, Ray," called Susy Grant from the
verandah. Susy never troubled to "mister" her male acquaintances after
the second meeting. "Harry'd be only too glad to take your drive himself
if Myrtle was somebody else's cousin."

"And he'd be no man if he wouldn't," declared George. "Hang it, I'm kind
o' sorry I'm barred, myself."

"Don't say that," said Harry. "Many a good wife has graduated from
pedagogy."

This allusion to Miss Green had the effect of silencing the younger
brother, and in a moment Miss Vane appeared. She wore a dress of creamy
white, such as on the night Raymond had first seen her. From the toes of
her little kid shoes to the tip of her modest hat she was white,
absolutely white, save where one large red rose nestled in the hat's
protecting shelter, and an historic brooch gleamed at her half-exposed
throat. Her dark, waving hair, the wonderfully deep, lustrous eyes, the
electrically sensitive mouth, the superb lines of her chin and neck, the
whole supported by a figure chaste, symmetrical and beautiful, asked no
grander setting than the emblem of purity she wore. Burton had thought
her beautiful on the night he first met her, but he told himself it was
her mentality that had so irresistibly attracted his, and as their
acquaintance had ripened his delight had been in her alert intellect,
her glorious voice, her easy grace of manner, gesture, and speech; but
this morning he saw in her a ravishment of personal, physical beauty
such as he thought had never before been vested in woman. The joy he
felt in her mere presence, which had been to him a delightful and
inexplicable mystery, was revealed in an instant as though a great cloud
had been swept away. He recognised the magnet and the steel, wedded in
an affinity defying every analysis of man, but everlasting and
indissoluble as the eternal hills. In one brief glance the great light
and the great responsibility had burst upon him, and his heart swelled
and throbbed in a panic of prayer that he might be able to keep his
secret.

"I bet you have forgotten something," cried Mrs. Grant, to her niece, as
Burton tightened the reins.

"I never bet," laughed Miss Vane, "but Mr. Burton will defend my
memory."

"In that case, I bet she didn't," declared Burton, gallantly.

"Well, here is the proof," said Mrs. Grant, advancing with a well laden
basket.

"It isn't mine," said Miss Vane. "I don't know anything about it."

"But it's yours, just the same. It's well you have an aunty to think
about you, dearie. You are so excited over your drive with Mr. Burton
that you would let the poor boy starve for his trouble."

For a moment the young woman looked aghast. "Oh, Aunty, you darling,"
she cried, as the basket was tucked in the back of the buggy, "and you
with so much other work. You should have told me to do it."

"Hush, hush, child. You may please the young gentleman's eyes best, but
I'm thinkin' your old aunty still knows the short cut to a man's heart."

In the pioneer days the Poplar river had presented a serious obstacle to
traffic in the spring and early summer freshets, until old Simon Crotton
had squatted on the bank and constructed a passable ford. Simon had a
team of shaganappies whose only virtue seemed to be that they were proof
against every form of abuse, and when the settler, with his wagonload of
rude implements or household effects, became entangled in the river, old
Simon, if not too thoroughly intoxicated, could be depended upon to lend
the assistance of himself and team, receiving therefore such dole as the
settler could afford or his generosity prompted. A fine steel bridge now
spanned the river at the spot, and Simon Crotton had long ago been
gathered to his fathers, but the place retained the name of Crotton's
Crossing and will probably so be known until the end of time. In such
humble ways do common men leave their indelible impress upon a new
country.

The road from Grant's to the crossing lay through a well-settled farming
district where almost every acre except the road allowances had come
under the plough. At one time the country had been partly covered with
shrub, and willows and poplars still grew along the road, affording
cover for prairie chickens and resting roosts for their relentless
enemy, the hawk. The air was laden with the smell of wild flowers, of
bursting buds, of fragrant red willows and balm-of-Gileads. For a mile
or two there was little conversation; Burton knew not what to say, and
Miss Vane was so enwrapped in the beauty of the country, so thrilled
with its glorious air, so inspired with its immensity, that she seemed
to have almost forgotten her companion's presence. At last, as they
crested a hill, and a vista of long, narrow road, of neat, quadrangular
farms, of comfortable homes, of pastures fencing sleek, drowsy cattle
and horses turned out for their Sunday holiday, with a white church and
school-house by the road, opened before them, she turned to Burton with
a strange mildness in her eyes, and exclaimed, "And still people with
means at their command, who are in a measure the masters of their
destiny, live in the cities!"

"Then you prefer the country?"

"Prefer! How is any other choice possible? What great thing has ever
been that could not be traced to the land?"

"Yet our great men go to the cities, and these men you see about you,
these farmers, every one of them laments his lot. They feel that the
hands of all mankind are against them."

"The same spirit prevails in the city, especially among the labouring
classes. They think how fortunate they would be if they were wringing
their living from the soil, instead of in the service of what they call
capital."

"But the intellectual advantages of the city?"

"Ah, there you have it. And yet, although you have had no college
education, no free lectures, no public night schools, no young men's
clubs, I venture to think you are better prepared for the battle of life
than many of those whom, you imagine, are more fortunately situated."

The words recalled Harry Grant's statement, and Burton did not pursue
the subject.

It was mid-day when they wound down the steep banks of the Poplar river
to the broad, elm-studded parkland below. Burton swung the team to the
left, and they plunged into the recesses of the forest along an old and
little used trail, which presently brought them to the edge of the
water. Here they unhitched and Burton tied the horses where they could
find a little grass, while Miss Vane spread the contents of the lunch
basket on a rug beside the water. The long drive in the bright morning
sunshine had whetted their appetites, but no sauce of hunger was
necessary to give flavour to Mrs. Grant's chicken sandwiches and currant
jelly, with a thermos bottle of hot coffee. After the luncheon they
gathered up the fragments, and climbing gingerly down to the stones
which studded the shallow water, washed their hands in the stream that
rippled by their feet. Then they picked their way across the river on
the stones, for the water was low, and found a path leading through
enchanted corridors fenced with great elms, and so they delved into the
fastness of the wood. Finally, tired with their explorations, they
recrossed the stream, startling a lazy fish that lay, head against the
current, in the shelter of a stone, and found a great flat rock that
overlooked the water. Here they sat, gazing down into its silvery
depths, while the ripple of the running water caricatured their
reflections. The faces below them were one moment long and sober, the
next broad and merry, and then, by a little freak of the current,
suddenly blended into one.

Both laughed. "The water is teasing," said Miss Vane.

Burton sat in a great happiness of body and soul.

Aloud he repeated in a gentle undertone,

    "And here and there a foamy flake,
      Upon me as I travel;
    With many a silvery waterbreak,
      Above the golden gravel.

    "I steal by lawns and grassy plots,
      I slide by hazel covers;
    I move the sweet forget-me-nots
      That grow for happy lovers."

He stopped short, half ashamed; the poet had tricked him into a word he
had not meant to use.

The hours fled faster than they knew, and it was not until the setting
sun burst in great golden bars between the trunks of the stately elms
that they realized it was growing late.

"We must go," said Miss Vane. "'Twill be dark before we can reach home.
And yet I am loath to leave a scene of so much happiness."

"The day will be a mile-post in my memory," said Raymond. "It has been
to me a season of delight. But how could it be otherwise with such
companionship?"

It was his first attempt at a compliment.

"Please do not speak to me in that way," said Miss Vane, and there was a
ring, not so much of anger as of pain, in her voice.

Burton was crushed. He had understood that compliments were always
acceptable to a woman.

"Listen," she continued, with a sudden deep kindliness in her voice, "I
would not have you misunderstand me. My environment has, all my life,
been very different from yours. I was brought up in the city, in an
atmosphere of refinement and, if not luxury, at least moderate wealth.
My associations were among what were called the best circles in the
city. I met many men, handsome, wealthy, clever men, and I will not
pretend that I did not know their attitude toward me. But I found that
these men, although they could discuss affairs of government, of
finance, of literature and art, in the frankest manner among themselves,
could not address to me the commonest remark without wrapping it in a
compliment. To a man they would speak as an equal, a rational being, but
a woman must be flattered and cajoled. They say the way to a man's heart
is through his stomach, which I do not believe; but still more foolish
is the idea, held by most men, that the way to a woman's heart is
through her vanity. Whoever adopts such an attitude toward a woman,
every compliment from his lips is an insult. We women may be frail, and
foolish, and unreasonable, but surely, surely we deserve the truth. And
this morning, when I said I loved the country, it was, most of all, for
its sincerity. I have sometimes thought I could, perhaps, love a man, if
I found one who was not a liar."

The hard word came out with a crash; the wonderful, electric mouth
closed in a firmness that might have led men to battle, the deep eyes
lit up with a blaze that was not from the setting sun.

Burton mumbled an apology. "But I meant what I said, Miss Vane!"

She looked fairly in his eyes.

"I believe you," she said, simply.

                   *       *       *       *       *

It was late when Burton reached town. It was Sunday night, and the
business section was in darkness. Miss Vane had given him some letters
to post and, as he passed the store, it occurred to him to go in and get
the necessary stamps, which would save him a special trip to the
post-office in the morning. The firm's supply of stamps was kept in the
cash drawer in the safe, and Burton, having his keys with him, entered.
Striking a match he groped his way to the little office at the back of
the store where, by the light of more matches, he opened the
combination, known to only himself and Gardiner, and took out the
necessary stamps, which he would replace from his own in the morning.
Then he locked the safe and, seeing an unfinished book lying above it,
slipped it under his arm and left the store. The door fastened with a
spring lock, although a key was necessary to open it; he drew it to, and
as he did so he fancied he heard a footstep. The thought gave him no
uneasiness and he started blithely down the street, still revelling in
the delights of the happiest day his life had known. The little lecture
he had received from Miss Vane had only the effect of deepening his
attachment for her, and he was beginning to think, or at least to hope,
that she returned some measure of his regard. He properly concluded that
she would not have spoken so frankly to one in whom she felt no
interest.

Suddenly a dark object flew by his face, and a moment later a beer
bottle crashed in a thousand pieces on the brick wall at his side.

Burton turned quickly, but the streets were in darkness; he could see
nothing. He ran in the direction from which the missile appeared to have
been thrown, but his search was fruitless. As he continued his walk home
he turned the strange occurrence over in his mind; it seemed unreal,
like a bad dream. He began to doubt whether it had actually occurred, or
was it some insane freak of imagination? He resolved to say nothing of
the incident; it might have been accidental, which seemed incredible, or
the attack might have been meant for someone else, which was much more
likely. But if it were possible that he had secret enemies, he would
prepare himself to deal with future emergencies. If his assailant were a
man he would meet him as a man, with the weapons his Creator gave him;
but if a sneak and an assassin he must take other measures. He would buy
a revolver in the morning.




CHAPTER V--UNDER SUSPICION


    "'Thou shalt not steal,' the Law declares, and the sinner must pay
       the price,
    For the world abhors the petty thief who falls to the common vice,
    But the rich and the good and the powerful may steal--if they do it
       well--
    And the world sends them to heaven, but it sends the poor--to hell!"

                                              _The Empire Builders._

The absence of Miss Vane from church on the Sunday reported in our last
chapter was noted by every member of the congregation. None of the
Grants were in, which deepened the mystery, and although he might have
telephoned the Grant homestead and learned the cause of her absence, it
occurred to Gardiner that his horse needed exercise, and he drove out
early in the afternoon to investigate the situation for himself. He
trusted that Miss Vane was not ill, and he anticipated with some
pleasure an invitation to remain to tea. As a matter of fact the
invitation was given, but Gardiner did not remain. The discovery that
Miss Vane had gone to spend the day, the whole day, with Burton in the
woods, and alone; that she had ignored her official position in the
choir to do so, and, most of all, that she had given him no hint or
inkling of her intention, was, to say the least, disconcerting. He had
been surprised to find her walking with his clerk on the country road,
and after dark, but the explanation he had afterwards learned had
quieted his mind on that score, and he felt that his suit, although as
yet he had not announced it as such, was progressing favourably. It
seemed preposterous that he and his clerk should be rivals for the
affection of the same woman, but still more amazing that the clerk's
rivalry should be encouraged. Burton was but a boy, only twenty-one,
with no experience of life save what he had learned on his father's
farm, and without means of support except the twelve dollars a week he
drew from his employer. It was true that Burton was one of those quiet,
thoughtful fellows who are seldom sought by ladies for flirtations, but
are always in demand as husbands; it was true that Burton's book
learning far exceeded his own, that the young man read poetry while he
might be playing pool, and could quote the masters by the page, but that
was a sign of weakness rather than strength. But as for Gardiner, he
reflected with some satisfaction that he too was still a young man, just
thirty-two, and therefore a much more desirable age for the
consideration of Miss Vane, who could not be less than twenty-three; he
had an established business and an ample income, judged by the standards
of a country town; he was in appearance not the inferior of Burton, and
he fancied that his popularity among his acquaintances was at least as
great. After all, Burton was nothing but what he had made him; he had
opened up this life before the young man, and he could also close it; on
a week's notice even the slender support of twelve dollars could be
withdrawn. The thought afforded a ray of pleasure, but it was for the
moment only; his own good sense told him that from a business point of
view he could not afford to do without his clerk, whom he considered
better than many much higher-paid salesmen; moreover, he had little
doubt that a rival firm would be very glad to find a position for
Burton, probably at an advance of salary.

Taking the question in all its aspects it was one that demanded deep
consideration, and Gardiner spent the afternoon by himself.

In addition to the duties of the general store, Gardiner had the
business and responsibilities of cashing wheat tickets for one of the
grain companies operating elevators in Plainville. This is a branch of
trade usually left with the banks, but as these institutions at
Plainville had seen fit to impose a small charge for their services, the
grain firms, in their anxiety to avoid bankruptcy, had arranged with
different merchants to do the work gratis. Although Gardiner received no
pay directly for his work in this connection, it was considered some
advantage to do the business. The company at Winnipeg was notified by
wire or mail as money was needed, and the desired currency came promptly
by express. When the wheat season was at its height the amount sent was
often as high as five thousand dollars at a time, and this comfortable
sum frequently happened, about the fourth of the month, to be a godsend
to the merchant who did not have to account for it until the end of the
week. Moreover, as farmers had to come into the store to cash their
tickets, the merchants knew when they had a considerable sum of money in
their possession, and could force sales accordingly; or, if the customer
was slow to pay, and already in debt, an excellent opportunity was
afforded for collecting the account. Taking these things into
consideration Gardiner felt that the benefits derived from cashing wheat
tickets were sufficient to justify him in undertaking the responsibility
and labour the service entailed.

During the summer deliveries of wheat are usually slow, but farmers
frequently over-estimate the amount they will require for seed, and the
wealthier ones also make a point of carrying some of their wheat in
their granaries until summer to take advantage of the artificial prices
which are invariably effected by speculative manipulating after the
cereal is supposed to have passed out of the hands of the producers. As
seeding was now finished deliveries were freshening, and a package of
"wheat money" containing two thousand dollars in ten dollar bank bills
had been received on Saturday evening by express and, the banks being
closed, was left in Gardiner's safe over Sunday.

Monday morning, although the unpleasant event of the previous night
seemed to Burton more than ever to be an unreal remembrance, he resolved
to carry out his intention. He knew that the action was one his father
would hardly commend; his father had old-fashioned Ontario ideas about
carrying revolvers; but the situation was unusual, and he felt justified
in taking such measures as he could for his own protection. Accordingly,
on his way to the store he stopped at a hardware, and spent some time
selecting a modest weapon which he felt could be depended upon in case
of emergency. He pretended to the clerk that he wanted to try his
marksmanship on the gophers; secured a box of cartridges, and put the
loaded weapon in his pocket.

As he neared Gardiner's store he felt in his pockets for his keys. They
were gone! He hesitated a moment, and recalled having used them the
night before; then, seeing the door was opened, he entered.

Gardiner was in the office at the back of the store.

"Burton, come here, please," he called. His voice seemed strained and
hollow, and as Burton's eyes accustomed themselves to the store's
comparative darkness after the bright light outside, he saw that his
employer's face was as colourless as death.

"Why, what is the matter? Are you unwell?" cried Burton in alarm.

Gardiner steadied himself against a chair, and after one or two attempts
to speak whispered hoarsely, "The package is gone."

"Gone!" cried Burton, and would have walked to the safe, but Gardiner
stopped him.

"Just a minute," he said, having somewhat recovered his composure; "I
want to ask you a question or two."

Burton stopped and faced his employer unflinchingly.

"Have you missed anything this morning?"

"Why, no."

"Think again."

Burton hesitated. "Oh, yes," he said at length, "I did. When I came to
the door I couldn't find my keys."

"Do you identify those?" asked Gardiner, holding up a ring having
several keys attached.

"They are mine. Where did you get them?"

"_In the safe!_"

"Impossible!"

"Unfortunately not. They hung in the lock of the cash compartment.
Burton, whoever took that money used those keys!"

The young man looked at his employer as though his eyes would pierce him
through. "Gardiner," he said, in a hard, cold voice that seemed to be
coming from the depths of some terrible emotion, "do you accuse me of
this?"

It was the first time he had ever omitted the mister in addressing his
employer. He was speaking now as man to man.

"No," said Gardiner. "I accuse you of nothing. Even if I had the
positive evidence before my eyes I could not believe you guilty. But the
situation is baffling, and I am afraid--I am afraid suspicion will be
directed toward you. Let me give you the facts as I have found them and
as I, of course, will be obliged to report them to the police. When I
came down to the store this morning my first thought was for that
package. I came at once to the safe. Before it were lying a number of
half-burnt matches. This aroused my fears, and I tried the door. It was
locked. I operated the combination, and it opened. Inside, this bunch of
keys hung in the lock, but the cash drawer was locked. I turned the key
and opened it. The package was gone. Nothing else was disturbed, but
another burnt match lay in the cash box. Whoever opened that safe knew
the combination. Whoever opened that safe had the key of the cash
drawer. Burton, you and I are the only men in God's world who know that
combination and have the keys."

Burton listened to this recital with growing dismay. If he had
deliberately set about to put his feet in a trap he did not see how he
could have done it more effectively. He realised the great weight of
circumstantial evidence that was piling up against him, and in his heart
he felt that Gardiner was not to be blamed for his suspicions. The
incident of the smashing beer bottle again flew through his memory,
recalling also his fancy that he heard a stealthy step, but what would
such trifling and unsupported tales as these avail?

"At least I can explain about the keys," he said at last. "I came into
the store as I was going home last night about midnight, and I opened
the safe----"

"You admit you were in the safe last night!" shouted Gardiner, in a
passion of excitement.

"No, I do not admit it; I declare it. If you are determined to condemn
me unheard, on the strength of evidence which is at best only
circumstantial, I have nothing more to say. I suppose it is unnecessary
for me to go through the formality of tendering my resignation?"

"Do not take that view of it. The shock has unnerved me and excited you;
we must not do anything hastily. Notwithstanding the evidence, I believe
in your innocence. To prove that I mean what I say, I will add that your
resignation is not demanded, and, if tendered, will not be accepted. I
shall, as you know, be obliged to report the facts as I have found them,
but something new may develop, and in the meantime I ask you to go on
with your work in the store as if nothing had happened. Furthermore, I
apologise to you for my momentary distrust. I--I was rather upset, you
know."

Burton stood for a few moments undecided. A great darkness had arisen
out of his cloudless sky of yesterday. For the present, at least, there
seemed no course but to continue his service in the store, and trust
that time would reveal the true solution of the robbery.

"It is very decent of you, Mr. Gardiner, to speak as you have. And as,
if I were to leave your employ under the present circumstances, it might
be construed unjustly toward both of us, I shall remain."

The news of the theft from Gardiner's safe quickly spread through the
little town of Plainville. The first impulse of the citizens was to
attribute the crime to bad men from "the other side," who had chosen
Saturday night for the theft, trusting to their thirty-six hours' start
to place them at a safe distance from the scene of their operations. But
as it became known that no violence had been used, that the safe had
been opened and re-locked, and that the contents and location of the
package were secrets known to only Gardiner and Burton, the wise ones
shook their heads and murmured something about the folly of placing
young men in positions of great temptation. And when it leaked out that
Burton's keys had been found in the safe the street-corner clubs located
the criminal without further difficulty.

The Attorney-General's department was at once communicated with, and the
local constable, Bill Hagan, was instructed to take preliminary steps
pending the arrival of an officer from the city. Hagan was a harmless
but inefficient individual, whose chief qualifications for his position
lay in his ability to avoid trouble and vote right at election time. He
made a minute examination of the safe, and announced that he had
discovered a clue. Great excitement prevailed as to the nature of the
discovery, but Bill's lips were sealed. Previous attacks of this nature
had been relieved by means of liberal applications of stimulants, and
presently the constable found himself the centre of a circle of
depositors who instituted a run on their favourite bank--the hotel bar.
This unsealed Bill's lips, but only for entrance; so far from revealing
his discovery he presently forgot all about it, and his convivial
friends were left with a haunting suspicion that the clue had been a
ruse which had accomplished its purpose.

The following day, however, the officer from the city appeared on the
scene. He was a man of large stature and swarthy appearance, but with an
excessive colouring of his facial eminence which indicated that he too
was a regular patron of the financial institution which absorbed most of
Bill Hagan's income. Officer Elton, after a conference with his
subordinate, visited Gardiner's store, and heard from the lips of the
merchant a detailed account of such facts as had come to light
concerning the crime.

Burton was waiting on a lady customer while his employer and the two
policemen discussed the affair in the office; presently they came out,
and Elton, indicating Burton, said in a voice that could be heard
through the store--

"So this is the young man you speak of, who alone beside yourself knows
the combination of the safe? Well, my young friend, you've got yourself
into a fine mess this time."

Burton flushed. His father's shanty-man blood surged in his veins.

"If you are here to solve this mystery, go ahead and unearth the facts,
and no one will welcome the truth more than I; but if you are come to
throw insults at innocent people, I would enjoy your company for about
two minutes on the street."

"Not so fast, not so fast, my young blood," said Elton. "It would be
more to the point if you made a clear breast of this matter. Just hand
over that money intact and I have no doubt your employer will be
disposed to take a lenient view of the case, and it need not come before
the courts at all. I think I can promise you that much. I have some
influence with the department," he added, pompously, looking about on
the crowd of curiosity seekers who had gathered in the store.

"I have nothing to confess," said Burton, hotly. "I know nothing,
absolutely nothing, of what became of that package."

"You'll have a job making a jury believe that, and if you turn down the
fair offer I made you, I will just place you under arrest."

"By whose authority?"

"By whose authority? By MY authority!"

"Your authority carries no weight with me," said Burton. "It may be as
fictitious as the courtesy of the police."

"Well then, look at that," said Elton, leaning forward and exposing a
police button.

"That proves nothing. You may have stolen it. Produce your papers."

Burton's anger had risen to a pitch where, although he appeared
outwardly calm, every fibre of his being was charged with wild, rioting
emotion. The disgrace of suspicion was keen enough, but the crude,
brutal manner of the arrest, and Elton's apparent delight in the
humiliation he was inflicting, were unbearable. He rightly guessed that
the officer had no warrant, but was trying to carry matters with a high
hand to impress his personal importance on the simple country folk about
him, and he determined that the glory should not be all on one side.

"You say I stole it!" cried Elton, white with rage. "I'll put you in
irons for this."

Burton stood behind the grocery counter, a short counter, about ten feet
long. The store was now filled with excited onlookers, who, however,
kept a little distance from the storm centre.

"Come out from behind that counter!" thundered Elton.

"Come in and bring me out," challenged Burton. "The people want to see
you do it."

This direct appeal to Elton's weakness for self-aggrandisement decided
the officer.

"Hagan, go in at that end," he commanded, with the air of a general
mustering his legions. "We'll show this young blackleg where he gets
off."

Hagan, with some trepidation, entered the passage behind the counter and
the grocery shelves at one end; Elton forced his way in at the other.
Taking in the situation at a glance, Burton caught up a weight off the
scales and threw it at the head of the hesitating Hagan; that gentleman,
in his eagerness to avoid the missile, slipped on the oily floor and
sprawled behind the counter. Burton turned his attention to Elton, who
was now upon him; he feinted a blow at the officer's face, which caused
him to throw up his guard, but instead of striking he seized his
adversary by the collar and administered a quick jerk forward which
landed the policeman full-length flat on the hapless Hagan. A roar of
delight greeted Burton's achievement, for, despite the weight of
circumstantial evidence, many of the townspeople, and especially the
young men, believed him innocent; and all were delighted to see this
indignity heaped upon a bombastic bully who on several previous
occasions had rendered himself obnoxious to the people of Plainville by
his brutal arrogance. The weight of the law lay heavily upon Hagan, but
the onlookers showed no disposition to lighten the burden, and the two
men were left to extricate themselves from their narrow quarters as best
they could. Elton, being on top, was first to get free, and as he
emerged from behind the counter a great cheer broke from the lips of the
now thoroughly delighted spectators. But if Elton was angry before, the
jeers and laughter, with the knowledge that his dignity had suffered an
irreparable collapse, filled him with maniacal fury. Seeing Burton
standing in the middle of the floor he rushed toward him with a roar of
imprecations, and the crowd quickly shifted to allow room for action.
But in his rage Elton failed to benefit from the lesson he had so
recently experienced; he guarded his face from the threatened blow, only
to be again seized by the collar and flung headlong on the floor with a
violence that left him momentarily stunned. He rose slowly, but the
shock had sobered him; he waited until his half-dazed eyes had properly
located Burton; then, with the quickness of a cat he threw his hand to
his hip and covered the lad with a revolver. Then, for the first time,
came to Burton the realization that he too was armed; but while he
feared no man with Nature's weapons he was no expert with pistols, and
he had sense enough to realise that a fight under such conditions would
be suicide. Elton advanced slowly, gloating over the revenge that was
now within his grasp, but suddenly his feet shot from under him and he
again collapsed on the floor, the revolver flying from his grasp as he
fell. Two great hands closed about his throat; his nerveless jaw fell
against the puffy wrinkles of his neck, and when he looked up it was
into the face of old Dick Matheson, who had wandered in to see the cause
of the excitement. Few who knew the mild-mannered farmer deemed him
capable of such anger, nor of the vivid flow of sulphuric adjectives
which he poured upon the now thoroughly cowed officer.

"Start a rough-house in Plainville, would you? Pull a revolver on this
boy? Show these people how much of a fool can sometimes buy himself into
a government salary? You, an officer of the law, attempting an unlawful
act, and thoroughly trounced by a boy for doing it." He emphasized every
sentence with a vicious shake of the helpless head. "Burton would have
submitted in a minute to a properly qualified officer. But for you--bah!
You are an insult to every honest officer, a stench in the nostrils of
Plainville, and if you are within the boundaries of this town in thirty
minutes the vigilance committee will call on you." So saying he started
to drag his prisoner to the door; willing hands crowded around with
assistance, and this victim of a little brief authority was dumped
unceremoniously into the street.

Elton gathered himself up and without a word started to walk to the
railway station. "Now, get!" was Old Dick's last advice to him. Then
turning to the crowd the farmer explained it all, half-apologetically,
with the remark, "You see, I knew his father on the Muddywaski."




CHAPTER VI--THE ARM OF THE LAW


    "All things are in the Beginning,
      All things are to the End,
    Though few may know the secret,
      And none may comprehend;
    And some must paint in error.
      And some must paint aright;
    For some paint in the shadow,
      And some paint in the light."

                                              _The Empire Builders._

If there was one thing upon which the people of Plainville prided
themselves it was their law-abiding disposition. This is an attribute of
Canadians generally, and, it may be said, particularly of the Canadians
of the prairie provinces. That the dweller in the land of the maple
should possess a reverence for law which does not distinguish any other
nationality of the Western Hemisphere is not so much a matter of
constitutional difference, or of the law itself; the secret lies in the
manner in which the law has been administered and enforced, and in the
fortunate circumstance that Canada has, as a rule, been able to secure
the services of intelligent and incorruptible officers. The tact,
consideration and efficiency of the police have won for them the
appreciation and support of the masses, and the remarkable security of
life and property prevailing throughout the vast and sparsely settled
country is due more to the incorruptible service, gentlemanly bearing
and unquestioned personal bravery of her police than to all the rifles
in her armouries.

But of recent years the police had fallen, comparatively, into
disrepute. The mounted police had been withdrawn, and the local officers
were selected more with a view to rewarding past political services, and
furnishing a retainer for services yet to be performed, than from any
consideration of mental or physical efficiency. This fact was
undermining the public loyalty to the police, and the crowd who
discussed Burton's attempted arrest as they waited at the post office
for their mail were obviously in sympathy with the young man.

"I'm in favour of the law, an' of the law bein' carried out," said Big
Jack McTavish, "but when my hired man thinks he's more important about
the farm than I am, I gen'rally manage pretty soon to make a change. An'
that seems to be about the attitood of these here policemen like we have
now-a-days. We hire 'em, an' give 'em a job an' a clean soot, an' they
ain't got the crease outa their pants before they get the idea we was
just created for their convenyunce."

"Taint just the police," said Tim O'Brien; "it's the whole joodishary.
Where do they get the judges, will you tell me that? Lawyers, bedad, an'
no recoord uv their conversion, nayther."

"Wheest, man," said Big Jack. "Don't ye know that's contempt of coort?
You can criticise ev'ry public official from the pound-keeper to the
king, but your thoughts about the joodishary must be kept to yourself.
That's because this is a free country. All the same, Tim, I don't know
that the contempt gets any less by bein' bottled up."

Tim removed his pipe preparatory to a more lengthy speech.

"Oi mind when Ould Dave Cottrell was up before the beak, which in them
days was Noah Chapman, fer shootin' a dog o' Mrs. Mandle's. The dog had
worried Ould Dave's sheep, and one day, d'ye moind, the ould fellow up
an' shot him. Av coorse, the decision was against Dave, an' as he pays
his fine he up an' says, 'That's what comes uv bein' tried by a relative
uv the deceased,' says he.

"'Oi fine ye foive dollars for contimpt uv coort,' says ould Chapman,
just loike the Czar sintencing a gineral to be shot, he says, 'an'
what's more, ye'll pay it afore ye go out.'

"Ould Dave looked at him a minute, and thin he pulled out tin dollars
an' handed it to him, solemn as if he was gettin' married.

"'Kape the change,' says ould Dave."

There was a general laugh at this recountal of old Dave's wit, when one
of the crowd mentioned that a "policeman-lookin'" fellow had got off the
train and gone up to Gardiner's.

"That'll be another come out to round up young Burton," said Big Jack.
"It's a pity they wouldn't send the whole force an' be done with it."

"There'll be no need of any more," said another. "Burton will come round
quiet enough this time. That fellow yesterday just rubbed on a raw spot
on his nerves, and he got what was comin' to him."

It proved to be as the last speaker had predicted. Upon the failure of
Elton to land his man it dawned upon those in authority that it might be
as well to send someone a little more familiar with the game, and
Officer Macdonald was placed on the case. Upon his arrival at the store
he had a long talk with Gardiner, and finally Burton was called into the
private office. He recounted briefly the facts of the case as far as he
knew them.

"The situation is most unfortunate, Burton," said Macdonald. "It is not
for me to judge you, nor even to imply that you have guilty knowledge of
this matter. However, as you understand, I am sent here to unravel this
case if possible, and I must act on the evidence at hand. Further
evidence may develop at a later date and entirely change the aspect of
the affair, but at present I must act upon the information available,
and I feel that that information demands that a warrant for your arrest
be issued and you placed in custody."

"The warrant is unnecessary," said Burton, "except as a matter of
formality. I am ready to go with you."

"Hang it, Gardiner, I hate to do this thing," said Macdonald. "I've been
hunting criminals for twenty years, and my judgment fails me if we have
the right one this time."

"It is certainly very baffling," Gardiner replied. "As I have told him
different times, I am convinced that Burton is innocent, but, as you
say, the evidence just now points rather strongly against him. It is a
difficult situation all round."

"Burton," said the officer, "there is no use of you and me walking down
the street together. People in these little towns are so fond of a
scene, and I like to disappoint them. Mr. Sempter, I believe, is a
magistrate; you might go down to his office and await me there. I will
be responsible for you until after your preliminary trial, and then no
doubt you can arrange bail."

"I will be pleased to go bail for you," interrupted Gardiner. "Telephone
me when you reach that stage and I will fix it up for Mr. Sempter."

The consideration, and the contrast in treatment, brought the tears to
the boy's eyes. "It is very good of you--both of you," he stammered. "I
only hope that in the end you may know your confidence was not
misplaced."

The preliminary hearing before a magistrate was held the following day,
and the little courtroom was crowded to the doors. No new evidence, at
first, was adduced. Gardiner told about leaving the package in the safe,
and finding it gone on Monday morning. The finding of Burton's keys in
the lock of the cash drawer seemed the most damaging evidence offered by
the prosecution. No witnesses were called for the defence, but Burton on
his own behalf explained that he had gone to the cash drawer late Sunday
night for stamps to mail some letters, and knew nothing more of the
matter. The magistrate was about concluding that there was not
sufficient evidence to warrant holding the accused, when a new and
rather unwilling witness was introduced. It was Billy Haynes, hardware
clerk.

"What do you know of this case, Mr. Haynes?" asked the magistrate.

"Nothing," answered the young man.

"Nothing!" exclaimed the magistrate. "Then why are you here?"

"Indeed, and it's not my wish that brings me here, sir, and I really
know nothing about the case, but I was foolish enough to say down town
that Burton had bought a revolver from me Monday morning. He said he
thought he would shoot gophers with it."

"What have you to say about this?" said Mr. Sempter, addressing Burton.
"The purchase of a revolver is not in itself an offence, but, in
conjunction with the evidence we already have, it does not improve the
appearance of your case. Can you state any logical reason why you should
go to a hardware store the first thing Monday morning--the first thing
after this robbery appears to have been committed--and buy a revolver?"

"I fear my reason will hardly seem logical," said Burton, "but after I
left the store Sunday night a bottle flew by my head and smashed against
the wall. I tried to find my assailant, but it was very dark, and I
could see no one. I felt that I was likely to be the object of attack
from unknown sources, and I made up my mind to buy a revolver."

The magistrate looked the young man over for a full minute. "I am sorry
for your sake that this last evidence came in," he said at length. "Of
course, your explanation of the purchase of the revolver may be quite
correct, but it is a little hard to believe that a young man like you,
who appears to be quite popular in the town"--there was a murmur of
approval and a nodding of heads among the young men in the crowd--"I say
it is a little hard to believe that anyone is lying in wait for you with
murderous intent. In view of this new development and the mystery of the
whole matter, I feel that I must let this case go before a judge. You
will be required to appear at the fall assizes to answer to the charge
of stealing a package said to contain two thousand dollars from the safe
of Alfred Gardiner. You should have little difficulty in obtaining bail,
and I will be glad to give you what assistance I can in that
connection."

Burton heard the words as though he were already under sentence, but he
recognised the spirit of fairness that prompted Mr. Sempter, and he
could only say, "Thank you, sir."

Gardiner had pressed up to the magistrate's desk. "Let me go bail," he
said. "I will answer for Burton's appearance at the proper time."

"It can no doubt be arranged," answered Mr. Sempter. "In fact, I am so
confident that your bail will be accepted that I will take it upon
myself to place the young man at liberty at once, on his parole to
appear again when required. You promise that, Burton?"

"I do," the lad answered, and was immediately released from custody.

The first who spoke to him as he was about to leave the building was
Billy Haynes, the hardware clerk.

"Gee, Burt, old man, I'm sorry I got you into that mess. That's what
comes of blatting things in a two-by-four burg like this. If I'd kept my
trap shut this whole thing would have fallen through. Old man Sempter
was just ready to turn you loose with a clean sheet. Of course you know
I don't believe a word of it--that is, that you had anything to do with
this affair. Whoever threw that beer bottle knows more about it than any
of us. You ain't sore at me, Burt, are you?"

"No, I'm not sore. On the whole, it seems better that the matter should
go before a judge and be settled for ever. If Mr. Sempter had turned me
loose, as you say, the robbery would have remained as much a mystery as
before, and some people would always have thought me guilty. I can't see
how it is to be accomplished, but I hope and trust that the real facts
will come to light before fall."

"Sure they will," said Billy. "Everybody believes in you. Look at
Gardiner there, stepping right up to go your bail. There's a score of
others would do the same, but it was mighty white of him." In fact,
Gardiner's magnanimity was the principal topic of discussion by the
crowd which now stood in groups about the courtroom floor.

At the door Burton was met by Harry Grant, who shook his arm as though
he intended to acquire that member.

"Easy, Harry," Raymond cried. "Goodness, spare the arm. They may give me
hard labour, and then I'll need it. One would think I had just been
acquitted, instead of sent down for trial."

"So you are acquitted--acquitted with honour," exclaimed his friend.
"When a magistrate accepts parole on his own responsibility, and the
aggrieved party offers bail for the accused, a man's innocence is as
good as established. But say, Burton, why didn't you tell about that
bottle incident before? That's the only clue to the whole affair. The
finding of the keys was nothing. I know about the letters and I know
some one who would have got up in court and sworn to your errand, if you
had given her a chance. Why didn't you?"

"Harry, your cousin's name must not be connected with this affair. It is
good of you--and her--to suggest it, but she really must have nothing to
do with it."

"When you know my cousin better you'll handle that word 'must' with more
care, young man. She's not one of those girls who can be 'musted' into
silence when a friend's reputation is at stake. Before the trial comes
off she'll cut a big figure in this case, or I'm not Harry Grant. By the
way, when are you coming out to see us again?"

"Not until this thing is cleared up, and I am either proved innocent
or--pshaw, can't you see that it is out of the question at present?"

"No, I can't, and if you don't come willingly I'll bring in one of the
plough teams and 'snake' you out," laughed Harry, as they parted at the
corner. "So long. I'll see you at the store one of these days."

Burton went back to his work in the store with a heart lighter than he
could have thought possible. He was under the shadow of a crime, but in
the hour of adversity he was beginning to discover the worth of a few
true friends. Gardiner's action in guaranteeing his bail had gone far
toward removing the sting of the suspicion with which he felt his
employer had regarded him the morning after the robbery. Harry Grant's
old time friendliness seemed intensified by the circumstances, and Billy
Haynes' sincere regret for his share in the affair also helped to
lighten the load. But most of all, and most significant of all, was the
fact that Miss Vane was prepared to stand by him; nay, that she would
_insist_ on standing by him, even to the length of testifying, if
necessary, in his defence. A great pride filled his heart as he thought
of it, and with the pride came the determination that come what would he
would fight the fight through to a finish. He was convinced that there
was not sufficient evidence to convict him, but he would be satisfied
with no negative results. He must be exonerated; his reputation must
emerge without a stain. And then, perhaps--

That night on his way to supper he passed Riles, who came reeling out of
a bar-room, and the leer on the farmer's face was not a good thing to
see. "And so, young meddler," he hissed, "you are buying revolvers now,
but I guess you'll soon be where you won't meddle in decent folks'
affairs again for awhile, eh?"




CHAPTER VII--ONLY A BARNARDO BOY


    "They'll abuse him as a youngster, they will mock him as a man,
    They'll make his life a thorny path in every way they can,
    Till he curses his existence and the day that it began,
    And he wishes he was rotting in the sod."

                                              _The Empire Builders._

Hiram Riles and his wife lived on a farm about two miles from the Grant
homestead. They had come out from the East in the early days, when Riles
was a strong, sinewy fellow to whom money-getting had not yet become a
mania, and his wife still retained some of the roses and some of the
sentiment of youth. But it's a hardy rose that survives twenty years of
pioneer life, and it's a deep-rooted sentiment that can weather
prosperity unelevated by culture and unsweetened by self-sacrifice. And
in the Riles' home culture had come to be a thing misunderstood, and
self-sacrifice a thing unknown. There was only one end in life--to make
money; and there was only one way this could be done--by labour which
amounted to slavery, and stinginess which amounted to theft. Nothing
which could not be expressed in dollars and cents had any value to
Riles; no doctrine but mammon-worship had any part in his creed.

The years had dragged on and he had prospered after the standard of the
world, gaining money and losing everything that money cannot buy.
Quarter section had been added to quarter section, bought when land was
cheap and paid for by dint of untiring labour and at the sacrifice of
physical comforts and mental advantages which Riles considered of no
moment. But as, labouring from dawn to dusk, he added quarter to
quarter, the time came when even his dauntless energy could not keep up
with the growth of the farm. True, his wife helped him to the limit of
her strength, driving the plough and the binder, stooking in the fields,
or, drenched to the waist, working in the garden on days when the rain
prevented harvesting, and milking her dozen cows after the neighbours
were in bed. She was a model wife, as Riles admitted, but even in the
admission he took rather more credit to himself for selecting and
"breaking her in" than he allowed to her for her strength and industry.
But when their combined efforts could no longer furnish the labour
needed on the farm, Riles found it necessary to get a hired man. It took
him months to make up his mind that the expenditure was unavoidable, but
at length he drove to town and announced to a group of idle men that he
was looking for a good strong man, not afraid of work, and would pay
twenty dollars a month, board and keep.

Riles honestly believed that as soon as he made this offer all the idle
men in the town would crowd around him competing for the position, and
he was not prepared for the indifference with which they regarded it.

"Well, who wants it?" he demanded. "Speak up quick, I got no time to
lose. I've a field of oats there waitin' stookin', and if you fellows
don't want the job there's lots that does. Who's comin'?"

Nobody moved, and at last one of the men said, "I guess you better try
somewhere else, Mr. Riles. Everybody here seems to know you."

"They do, hey? And what of it? Ain't I good? Don't I pay my bills? Just
yuh walk down to the bank and ask 'em if Hiram Riles ever turned down a
bill he owed, and I guess you'll find----"

"I wasn't thinking about the bills," the man replied. "You pay them
because you have to. You're worth it, and you can't get out of it. But
you're as much a slave-driver as ever cracked a whip over a nigger in a
cotton field. Nobody 'at knows you'll work for you. You better get a
green Englishman--some poor fool that doesn't know any more than be a
victim for a blood-sucker of your class."

With an oath Riles jumped from his buckboard and struck a savage blow at
the frank labourer, but years of hardship in the fields had taken
greater toll than he guessed. The fist he aimed at the face of his
critic cut a circle in thin air as a sledge-hammer blow caught Riles
under the jaw and he fell with tremendous force against a hub of the
buckboard. When he staggered to his feet the flesh of his forehead was
cut in two and the eyes lobed forward as though they would fall out.

Riles had the wound dressed by a doctor and met the evening train, where
he engaged a harvester just out from Ontario. They drove home through
the darkness, the hired man so tired with three days and nights of
bumping in a slat-seated colonist car that he would have fallen out of
the buckboard had Riles not held him in. When the horses were stabled
the new comer was shown to his bedroom, which was reached by climbing up
steps nailed to the studs of the shanty where Riles and his wife lived.
In the loft was a little window looking out of a gable, a straw mattress
covered with two discarded horse-blankets lay in a corner, and a kitchen
chair, from which the back had been broken, completed the furniture of
the little room. It was, however, also used as a store-house for old
clothes and for drying vegetables, and the mice scampered in great
excitement at the approach of the lantern.

Long before daylight Riles wakened the hired man by thumping the wall
with a stick of firewood. "Come, yuh barnyard savage," he said, in his
playful humour, "roll out. Do yuh think I'm goin' to pay yuh twenty
dollars a month to _sleep_? Get down here an' get at those oats, an' be
quick about it, or I'll fire yuh before noon."

The sleepy harvester crawled out of the musty blankets, drew on his
clothes, and opened his suit-case. From a jumble of socks and underwear
he drew a revolver and a murderous-looking knife. Slinging the suit-case
by a strap over his shoulder, with the knife between his teeth, the
revolver in one hand and the lantern in the other, he made the
precipitous descent into the kitchen.

"What in thunder does this mean?" demanded the astonished Riles, as he
caught sight of the animated arsenal.

"I'm going after those oats," the man replied, in a hoarse whisper.
"They're wild oats, ain't they?"

"No, they're not wild oats, my smart young fellow. They're tame oats, if
yuh know the difference."

"Then if they're tame oats," said the other, in a wheedling tone, "if
they're tame oats, don't you think, Mr. Riles, if we were careful, we
might manage to sneak up on them in daylight?" And before the astonished
Riles could find an answer the hired man continued, "Ta, ta, Mr. Riles.
Much obliged for the night's lodging. Hope you catch the oats," and had
swung out into the darkness to find his way back to town.

His first experience with hired men was rather disconcerting, but out of
it dawned an important light. The illumination came upon Riles as he
stooked the oats himself that forenoon. After dinner he drove back to
town and called casually upon Bill Perkins, the lawyer. It was no part
of Riles' policy to encourage any such useless class as lawyers or
doctors by paying a fee, but he usually succeeded in getting the desired
information in process of conversation, and without appearing to have
sought it. He had already benefited several times by advice given by
Perkins in this way, and the lawyer had determined to be even with him.

Perkins was busy with a transfer of land when Riles dropped in, and for
a few minutes the conversation was of crops and harvest and the weather.
Skilfully enough the farmer introduced the subject of hired help,
lamenting how difficult it was to get good men and how the hired men
now-a-days took all the profit from the farm and left the owner with the
expense, in all of which Perkins concurred. As he was about to leave the
office Riles remarked--

"Oh, by the way, I guess there'll be a job fer one o' yuh fellows one o'
these days. I heard this mornin' of a hired man quittin' work before the
month was up, and the farmer wouldn't pay him, an he's goin' to have the
law on him. How'll a case o' that kind come out, do yuh think?"

"If the servant left without due provocation before the period of his
employment had expired, he will have difficulty in collecting his
wages."

"I was thinkin' so, Mr. Perkins. Well, it's a fine afternoon, an' I must
be gettin' back."

"Just a minute, Mr. Riles," the lawyer called, as his client was
stepping out of the office. "There is a small fee for the information
just given you. Five dollars, please."

"Five devils!" shouted Mr. Riles. "You go to ----. I beg yer pardon, Mr.
Perkins. I didn't mean to be so out-spoken, but yer little joke kinda
took me by surprise. Ha! ha! a very good one, too. There's no bein' even
with a lawyer."

"It's no joke, Mr. Riles. You've been sponging your legal advice around
this office long enough. To-day you will pay for it or I will collect it
at court."

"I'll pay it, will I? I'll see yuh in hell first," said the farmer, now
thoroughly beside himself.

"Very well," said Perkins. "There'll be no trouble here. But if it isn't
paid by Saturday night you know what will happen."

Riles started down town in a rage, and Perkins reached for his
telephone.

"Mr. Bradshaw? Hello, Bradshaw, this is Perkins speaking. Just had a
visit from Riles--sponging advice as usual. Socked him a fiver and
threatened if he didn't come through by Saturday night I'd have him up.
He's mad enough to eat the town, but he'll likely be round to you. Fix
him plenty.... That's right, George, go to it." Mr. Perkins set down his
telephone, sat back in his chair, and indulged in one of the few hearty
smiles to which he found occasion to treat himself.

Meanwhile Riles, stampeding down town, reached the door of Bradshaw's
office. Bradshaw stood on the step drinking in the afternoon autumn
sunshine. The warm rays rested graciously on his slightly bald cranium.

"Good-day, Mr. Riles. How is it you're not cutting to-day?"

Riles collected himself, and forced a smile. "A little business in town,
Mr. Bradshaw. I've just been in talkin' with that measly opposition o'
yours, and what d'ye s'pose the cur did?"

"Who, Perkins? Oh, you can never tell what he'll do. I gave it up long
ago."

"Well, sir, we was just talkin' about things in general an' I told him
likely there'd be a case one of these days about a man quittin' before
his time was up, an' I asked him how'd it likely come out. He said the
quitter would lose, an' yuh can eat me, Bradshaw, if he didn't try to
charge me five dollars fer it, and threatened soot if I didn't pay by
Saturday night."

Bradshaw laughed. "You can never be up to Perkins," he said. "But I must
say it serves you right for going to him at all. Why didn't you come to
me in the first place?"

"That's what I will do next time, you may be sure. But he can't collect
that five, can he, George?"

"I'm afraid he can, Hiram. Yes, I rather think you'd better settle with
him."

"Well, it's a strange law. Lawyers get everything their own way."

"Once in awhile it happens that way," Mr. Bradshaw agreed. "And when
you're settling anyway there will be a ten-spot coming to me."

"To you? For what?"

"Legal advice," answered Mr. Bradshaw, placing his thumbs in the upper
pockets of his vest with an air of great complacency. "Haven't I just
told you you'd have to pay it?"

Riles was so dumbfounded that he pulled out ten dollars, threw it at the
smiling lawyer, and proceeded down street without a word.

But having paid fifteen dollars for legal advice Riles was too shrewd a
business man not to profit by it. That night he engaged another
"barnyard savage," being careful to hire him for a month. The man worked
for four days and quit. Riles refused to pay him any wages, and hired
another stranger on the same terms. In this way he was able to get
through the fall without any direct outlay for help.

But the system was not very satisfactory. Too much time was lost hunting
for new men, and the labourers always quit before they got into Riles'
way of managing the farm. The suggestion of the man who knocked him into
the wheel of the buckboard stayed with him almost as tenaciously as the
scar he then received. "Hire a green Englishman--some poor fool that
doesn't know any more than be a victim of a blood-sucker of your class."
Of course the words were rather strong--even Riles objected to them--but
the sentiment was all right. Besides, it was doing the Englishman a good
turn. It brought him away from a congested country and gave him an
insight into life in a new land. With industry and application even an
Englishman might become--_might become_--as prosperous and successful a
farmer as he himself! There was something for a young man to look
forward to!

A good scheme had been worked by one or two of Riles's neighbours. These
men--transplanted Englishmen themselves--who, to tell the truth, had made
a very indifferent success of agriculture, had hit upon the idea of
giving instruction to young Englishmen of good family in the art of
farming as it is practised in the Canadian West. They had no difficulty
in finding fond fathers who, for reasons that need not be entered into
here, were anxious that their sons should have a "colonial" experience,
and were willing to pay from fifty to two hundred pounds a head per year
(according to the state of the paternal exchequer and the desirability
of the exodus) for the board, lodging and instruction of their sons in
the "colony." Of course it never occurred to these worthy parents that
there are state-controlled institutions for giving just the instruction
needed, where their sons would be brought in contact with the best
influences in the land. Even had they known of these institutions they
would probably have preferred to place their young hopefuls with some
old acquaintance whose Munchausian reports of his success in Canada were
accepted as gospel, but whose real accomplishments consisted mainly in
supporting the brewery and dodging the bailiff--two occupations which
usually go hand in hand.

But Riles was not of the blood. He knew no one in England, and one or
two advances which he made to the English neighbours mentioned with a
view to "getting in on a good thing" were met with a coldness which
amounted to a rebuff. There remained only one thing to be done--adopt a
Barnardo boy. Riles would have much preferred a grown-up man, but on
consultation with some of the neighbours who had adopted these boys he
was assured that they could be depended upon to do as much work as a
man, and were more easily controlled. Twenty years ago the latter
consideration would not have appealed to Riles, but he recalled the
incident where he received his scar, and he knew enough about Englishmen
to know that if they excelled in anything it was in their ability to
protect themselves from physical damage, and incidentally to administer
a thrashing to their assailants. On the whole, perhaps a boy would suit
his purpose better.

Before being entrusted with the foster-parentage of an English orphan,
Riles found that he must have his application supported by the
recommendation of two reputable citizens and a resident clergyman. He at
once appealed to his neighbour, David Grant, than whom there was no more
respected farmer in the community. He hardly was prepared for Mr.
Grant's frankness.

"No, Hiram, I can't sign that paper. If one of my boys, ten or twelve
years old, were to be left an orphan, I wouldn't want him to come under
your influence for the next five years of his life. You're a good
farmer, Riles, but being a good farmer is one thing, and being a good
father's another. A great many people in this country seem to think it
more important that a man should be able to break in a colt than bring
up a boy."

"Oh, well," Riles answered, good naturedly enough, "if it was yer son of
course it 'ud be different. They've always had a good home, better'n
most boys, I'm thinkin'. But these English brats, herded out of the
streets an' turned loose in this country to live or die--it's a charity
for anyone to take them in. They don't know nothin', an' never will, but
eat an' sleep an' lie an' steal when they get a chance. They've got to
be broke in severe, an' I reckon Hiram Riles can do it 's well as the
next one. 'Course, if yuh've got conscientious objections," continued
Riles, the habitual sneer creeping back into his disfigured face, "I
won't press you to sign the paper."

"After a speech like that I think you had better not," said Grant,
quietly, but there was a significance in his voice that did not appear
on the surface.

Nothing daunted, Riles called on his two English neighbours who were
giving instruction in agriculture at so much per head. They signed his
recommendation without question. A clergyman who had never been in
Riles' home, who had never met Mrs. Riles, who knew nothing of their
style of living, put his name to the paper, as he did so speaking some
cheap platitudes about the privilege of giving a Christian home to "one
of these little ones."

And so it came about that Wilfred Vickery, already introduced to the
reader as "London," became the bond-servant of Hiram Riles and his wife,
Eliza Riles.

For a week or so the little orphan boy found everything so strange and
unreal that he went around as one in a trance. Pure English was
difficult enough for him, but the slangy colloquialism of the Riles'
home was almost unintelligible. Half the time he did not know what they
said to him, but stared in a vacant, meaningless way which they ascribed
to downright stupidity. When he spoke they mocked his language, although
using an equally corrupted tongue themselves. For a few weeks, while
under the direct care of responsible officers of the Home, the little
fellow had experienced a kindness and a personal interest which had
begun to unfold before him a life of which he had never dreamed. He had
been taught to sing a few hymns, he had been taught to utter a simple
prayer, he had been taught that there is a great Father to whom every
child is dearer than to even the kindest earthly father. He had never
known what an earthly father was, but in the new, great land to which
they were going he should soon know--he should find that for every little
child in all God's world some heart beats with the joy of a father's
love, some bosom swells with the wealth of a mother's devotion. He had
been taught these things, and some glimpse of that great real world
which lies just beyond the realm of the intellect had come to his poor
dwarfed soul and fired his spirit with the unutterable yearning that no
man has ever answered in terms of time and sense. He had learned that
life is not merely a battle to fill the belly, that the earth is not
only for fighting and swearing in, that Love is a _real_ thing, more
powerful than hate. The slumbering germ of his spiritual life, deafened
by a decade of London's roar, had been wakened by a brief contact with
kindness, and in the birth of imagination the world had taken on a new
interest and a new possibility. All these hidden emotions, touched to
sudden life, were clamouring for expression, for utterance, when he had
come--to this.

The boy's disillusionment was terrible and complete. They thought him
stupid, but he found the guise of stupidity serve his purpose well, and
he was more cunning than they. He stole to fill his stomach; he lied to
cover his theft. He shirked his labour whenever he could; he destroyed
property whenever he dared. When they cuffed him he cursed them; when
they swore at him he swore back, and he had the advantage of vocabulary.
When they made him milk cows he would pour the milk on the ground and
say the cow kicked it; when he was old enough to drive a team he would
let it run away whenever opportunity offered. He was to have been sent
to school, but he went only on those rare occasions when nothing could
be found for him to do on the farm, but he was compelled to write
periodical letters to the Home saying how happy he was and how kind Mr.
and Mrs. Riles were to him. He was held up as an object of contempt
before neighbours and strangers; he was the butt of their coarse humour
and the victim of their bullying authority.

The kind officers of the Home had taught him a little prayer, and told
him never to forget the good people who were to be his foster-parents in
the new land. And every night as he crawled to his musty mattress and
blankets in the mouse-chamber already described he would kneel by the
broken chair and repeat:

      "Jesus, tender shepherd, hear me,
        Bless Thy little lamb to-night,
      Through the darkness be Thou near me.
        Keep me safe till morning's light.
    God bless Mr. and Mrs. Riles and make me a good boy, for Jesus'
       sake, Amen."

He had repeated this prayer nightly for months. One night he had
difficulty getting the calves into their pen; they would run every
direction except the way he would have them go. He still had his cows to
milk, his pigs to feed, his wood and water to carry in, but the calves
refused to be housed. When he had them almost in they broke away, and
raced into the darkness of the pasture field, jumping and frisking in
appreciation of the joke. He ran after them as fast as his tired little
legs would take him, sobbing and swearing as he ran, but without
success. They could not be found in the darkness, and as he came back,
defeated and utterly played out, he met Riles, who had just returned
from town and was none the better for his potations. Without a word the
ruffian knocked the boy down with a swinging blow on the face, and
kicked him almost into insensibility. As he crawled to bed that night,
stiff, bruised and battered, he knelt before his broken chair and
repeated his nightly prayer. When he came to the words "God bless Mr.
and Mrs. Riles" he stopped. The significance of the words dawned upon
him in a way he had never quite understood. He was only a little boy,
against whom environment and ancestry seemed to have conspired, but he
was no hypocrite. He was praying for a man he hated, and the words stuck
in his teeth. For a long time he remained there on his knees, looking at
the misty light in the half-blackened lantern, and thinking, thinking.
He was fighting one of those great fights which come earlier in boyhood
than we sometimes think, and which decide in large measure the whole
course of after life.

Finally his jaws closed with a snap. "Damn Mr. Riles," he said, and
climbed into bed.




CHAPTER VIII--A MYSTERIOUS ACQUAINTANCE


    "There are times when most folks figure that their life has been a
       blank;
    You may be a homeless hobo or director of a bank,
    But the thought will catch you nappin'--catch you sometime unawares--
    That your life has been a failure, and that no one really cares."

                                                     _Prairie Born._

As the spring lengthened into summer the business in Gardiner's store
increased. The wheat had stooled well, and a couple of showers early in
May had relieved the drought that threatens before the thunder-storms of
June and July set in. The country was glorious in its verdure of growing
crops and green pastures, ponds of bright water not yet tinged with the
murkiness of vegetation, and little streams murmuring through the night
on their easy descent to the lower levels. Everything pointed to a
prosperous season, and the farmers, who, with Western optimism, always
buy on the prospects of the future, were patronising the local merchants
liberally. Gardiner and Burton had so far been able to keep up with the
rush, but when George Graves arrived on the afternoon train in search of
a position in a store, and showed Gardiner his references, he was
promptly engaged.

From the first Graves showed an interest in Burton amounting to an
attachment. He tried to get rooms at Mrs. Goode's in order that they
might be near each other, but the landlady too was enjoying a prosperous
season, and was unable to accommodate him.

"No, Mr. Grain, my house is quite plumb full, more's the pity, an' I'm
thinkin' o' you when I say it. It don't take folks long to find where
they can get a good meal, an' there ain't a boarder at my table but
speaks for himself. William!"--this in response to her husband's
footsteps in the hall--"William, go down and get the mail. I'm looking
for a letter from the new girl." Mrs. Goode considered her inferior half
a poor advertisement, and generally contrived to keep him out of the way
when customers were in prospect.

"No, Mr. Grange," she continued, "the work has got so heavy, what with
all home cookin' and sweepin' the upstairs every day, for if there's one
thing I says a young man wants it's a clean room and a good meal that's
cooked all through, an' what with it all I'm getting a new girl, all the
way from Torontuh, an' it'll be doublin' up as it is when she gets here,
an' two sleepin' in the parlour already."

Graves' disappointment was so evident that Mrs. Goode was touched by the
implied compliment, and ventured to suggest, "Maybe Mr. Burtle would
share with you."

This seemed a solution, but Burton was one of those young men who enjoy
their own company too much to forfeit it altogether, and although sorry
to refuse he could not be persuaded to let the new clerk room with him.
Graves, however, took no umbrage at Burton's refusal; on the contrary,
he seemed to seek the boy's companionship more than ever, and they soon
found they had many interests in common and proved to be congenial
associates.

But in Burton's eyes, at least, the arrival of the new clerk was much
eclipsed by the arrival of the new "girl" for Mrs. Goode's
boarding-house. Polly Lester was a lithe, dark young thing, with black
eyes accustomed to sleep dreamily through ordinary experiences, but they
glowed like a flame-shot thundercloud when aroused. Her hair, black and
luxuriant, her well-cut nose, thin but sensitive lips, and chin that sat
in a square, feminine defiance made her a girl to demand a second
glance. The neck sloped gently into the fold of her dress, clasped with
a modest black ornament at the throat, and when she spoke it was in a
voice low and vibrant, suggestive of moonlight walks and confidences
whispered in a friendly ear. Her step was quiet, almost stealthy, but
every poise from the ankle to the chin spoke courage and self-reliance.
A strange girl, this, to leave a city and seek a menial position in a
country boarding-house. She was a girl to direct, to command, to
engineer, and to execute; but here she waited on tables, made beds and
swept floors. When she looked at Burton, before she had so much as
spoken his name, he felt himself under the witching power of those
eyes--eyes that looked into him so calmly, but yet with such irresistible
attraction.

One night, a few days after Polly Lester's arrival at Plainville, Burton
closed the store and walked down to the little stream which the country
people dignified with the name of river. It was late in June, and heavy
rains had swollen the creek until it slipped by in rapid, muddy silence.
Through the clear evening air came the sound of the baseballers
practising for the great tournament on Dominion Day, now almost at hand;
although a mile away he heard the bass voice of the umpire calling balls
and strikes, and the cheers of the townspeople who sat about the diamond
when one of the boys made a hit or a sensational catch or contributed to
a double play. And although he could not hear them he knew that in
another part of the town eight young men and women were flushed and
laughing in the height of their excitement over a close fought game of
tennis, while on a score of verandahs little groups lounged after the
heat of the day and speculated on the outcome of "The First," or sipped
ice cream and nibbled cake. A muskrat across the stream sat on the muddy
bank and shot occasional cheeky glances at the intruder; a bird in the
willow overhead twittered snatches of her evening lullaby. The very air
was vital and vitalising, the lungs leaped in response to the optimistic
oxygen. It was a good world--for some. But to Burton it was a hard world,
and it was growing harder. He was under the shadow of a crime, and it
seemed the shadow would darken into a cloud that should blight his whole
life. Time was passing on, and nothing had occurred to relieve him of
the weight of suspicion which had fallen upon him. He would have to face
it out, he would probably be acquitted, but simply for lack of evidence.
His wages were small; under the circumstances he could ask no more;
indeed, he felt under an obligation to Gardiner for retaining him in his
employ at all. He had had a conference with his father, and the memory
did not reassure him. His father had made it plain that even he was
reserving judgment. A good lawyer would be engaged and every chance
given the lad to prove his innocence, but if he failed! Then there was
Miss Vane. He had met her once or twice in the store since the robbery,
and she had spoken to him as though nothing had happened. Indeed, he
even thought there was a soft tenderness in her words which he had not
detected before, but whether of love or pity, how should he discern? In
any case he could say nothing, do nothing, hope nothing until this
ordeal was over. And what could he hope then? What dared he hope? It was
folly, folly! He should love her always; he should paint her always in
the portrait gallery of his soul as he had seen her that exquisite
morning, ages ago, creamy white, from the tip of her shoes to the tip of
her hat, save where the rose nestled in her hair and a little brooch
glowed against the pink-veined ermine of her throat. Ah, that glimpse
that comes but once, that treasure to be hoarded for ever in the
chambers of the mind, where no minions of the law could find it, where
no judge and jury could wrest it away, where even life and death could
not lay tax, that was his, his for ever, for ever.... And as his eyes
moistened with the joy of that great revelation a vision rose from the
mist, dimly and undefined at first, but gradually revealing itself as
clear as if cut from a block of granite--a vision of raven hair and eyes
with the slumbering glow of the pent-up heavens. Burton gazed as though
at an apparition, and the fine features of Polly Lester stood reflected
in the mirror of his brain. At first the truth numbed him, but presently
he had grasped it at its real value. The polygamous instinct of the
human mind crushed in with a cruel shattering of ideals; his soul was
running riot with a chaos of overturned emotions.

He sprang to his feet. "My God," he cried, "and must I lose this too?
Can I not guard even the treasures of my own heart?"

"You are agitated, Mr. Burton," said a low voice at his side. "Have you
been seeing visions--in the water?"

He turned and looked in the face of Polly Lester.

"Not visions," he managed to say, "but reflections."

"Reflections should not disturb you, Raymond"--she used his first name as
though she had been his mother--"but you are straining your nervous
system to the breaking point. Here is a dry log--shall we sit down?"

She led him to the log and seated herself beside him. The sun was
setting after the long midsummer day, and the smooth, muddy water took
on a surface of quicksilver. Their faces looked back at them out of the
stream, and up from the young man's memory rushed a similar scene,
staged at Crotton's Crossing. And just as the thought struck home, by a
trick of the waving water the faces blended into one!

"You wonder that I, who have known you a week, should follow you here,
do you not?" she was saying. "I should have stayed behind, I should have
let you learn my secret for yourself. It is woman's lot to carry her
secret in her heart, guarded as a precious thing, until the object of
that secret pries it forth. But I am not a woman, as other women are. I
defy traditions; I defy conventions. I claim the right God gave me to
live my life as I will, where I will, how I will, with whom I will. When
first I looked into you--when first your eyes met mine, I knew--what you
knew. Why should we deceive ourselves? Why should we mock our own
destinies?"

"You speak strangely," said Burton. "I--I do not understand."

"Why do you lie to me, Raymond?" she asked, still in that low voice,
deep and vibrant, but without a suggestion of anger. "Why do you seek to
conceal--that which we both know?"

"You are a strange woman. I do not understand you."

"Oh, that is different. Of course you do not understand me. Nobody does.
I am so different. Instead of pretending I don't care for you, instead
of pretending I don't know that you care for me, I admit it all. I am
frank. I am truthful. I am, as you say, a strange woman."

"What are you doing in Plainville?" the young man demanded. "Why do you
work for Mrs. Goode, sweeping her boarders' rooms--a menial servant, a--a
chambermaid?"

"Fie on you, sir!" she cried, but there was a playful note in her voice.
"All honest work is honourable. There is nothing menial--except being
menial."

"But you--you don't need to do this. You are educated. Your speech
proclaims it. I have seen your handwriting; it is that of a business
woman. You have appearance. You have presence. You don't need to do this
work. Why do you do it?"

"Why should I answer that question?" she parried.

"I don't know. I suppose there is no reason. But you said you--you loved
me----"

"I didn't."

"You let me know it."

"You divined it. You found it out yourself. That saves me. If I had told
you I would be a shameless woman, but if you find it out my honour is
unscathed. Such are the decrees of convention."

"At any rate, now you have admitted it. Will you answer my question. Why
are you in Plainville?"

"Do you admit as much? You are interested in me. Do yourself the justice
to believe that I am interested in you."

"Admit that I love you? Yes, I believe I do."

The sun was down. Dusk was settling over the plain. The water ran black
before them. They sat for some time, gazing into its smooth depths. At
last she broke the silence.

"Do you know, Mr. Burton, you are rather undemonstrative in your
declaration of love." There was a sly, fascinating banter in her voice.

Burton made no answer. He saw a figure in white, and heard a voice
saying, "I have sometimes thought I could, perhaps, love a man, if I
found one who was not a liar." And he was wondering, weighing these two
women, each so powerful in her personality, although differing so much
in manner of expressing it. Miss Vane he understood, or at least thought
he did, but this girl was something so altogether different. He knew
that most men, and all women, would question her motives; he would be
sincere with her. At least he would not be a liar, active or passive.

"Perhaps I admitted more than I really meant," he ventured, at length.

"More than was true?"

"Yes, more than was quite true."

"Then you love another. It is that love that has made you honest with
me. I congratulate her. Tell me about her."

"You take rejection easily."

"Silly boy! A woman is never rejected while she lives. Is she pretty?"

"Yes, as pretty as you."

"How nice! And good?"

"Yes, better than you."

"Now I _am_ interested. How quickly you learn to be honest! I am hunting
the world for a man who isn't a liar."

The similarity of the expression was not lost on Burton, but his
companion continued:

"And you are going to be----"

"No."

"No? Why?"

"You know my trouble, don't you--Polly?"

"I have heard of it. But I believe nothing. Does she?"

"No, I am convinced she is as true as steel. But while this cloud is
over me I can say nothing--I can do nothing."

"But it will soon be gone. Your trial will come in the fall. All the
boarders say you can't be convicted. You will be free."

"Yes, free, with this stain of infamy upon me. Free to go West, to lose
myself in the great new country, to forget my past--if I can. But free to
marry her--never!"

"You mean that the real culprit must be found. There must be a positive
verdict, not a negative one?"

"That's it. The criminal must be run to earth. The money must be
discovered, if possible."

It was quite dark. Night blanketted the prairies, and night on the
prairies is always cold. Miss Lester shivered. Silently her form nestled
into the arms of Burton. A hand fell against his, and he shook as though
struck by an electric current. She raised her face to his, her warm
breath flooded his cheeks and eyes and stole into his nostrils and his
lungs.

"Raymond dear," she whispered. "You are carrying too much alone. You
will break down. I can help you. Will you let me? Will you--do you trust
me?"

And in a voice so low that she caught it by instinct rather than hearing
he answered, "I do."

"Then tell me--all."

"All?"

"Yes, tell me who took the money, and why, and where to find it, and I
pledge you my word--my honour--that you shall walk out of court not only
free, but justified. Remember, you trust me. You say you trust me--you do
trust me." She raised her hand and held the spread fingers, pointed,
towards his temples, her eyes were within a palm's width of his.
"Remember, you trust me, Raymond, you trust me. This log shall rise in
witness against you before I do. You trust me--tell me--ALL."

With a curse he threw her from him. "This, then, is your love, your
honour, your--your perfidy. God judge between me and you this night!"




CHAPTER IX--A FUGITIVE


    "Ever the sun sets in the west;
        Yellow and gold;
    Ever a face to a window prest;
        Can it behold,
    Large in the lens of the dying light,
    Wandering boy, in joy or plight,
    Trudging sturdily into the night,
        Fearless and bold?"

                                              _The Empire Builders._

Dominion Day was the big day of the year at Plainville. Then the
baseball teams from all the towns around gathered in the Agricultural
Grounds for the final contest of the season, as the approach of haying
time would soon give the young men other outlets for their energy.
Baseball was the great game of the district, but in order to afford some
variety of attraction there would also be a football match between the
English and Canadian born--an event usually marked with much friendly
enthusiasm. The Englishmen had been schooled in the rudiments of the
game on the playgrounds of the motherland, but years behind the plough
or in the harvest field had left the flesh strangely unequal to the
spirit. The Canadians, on the other hand, knew less of the game but
trusted more to the pioneer qualities of force and endurance, although
George Grant said his chief difficulty was in dodging the h's dropped by
his opponents. Then there were pony races, usually won by some
unheralded farm plug, to the disgust of the "sports"; a tug-of-war,
married men against single, in which the benedicts, thanks to
avoirdupois, were invariably victorious, while the Plainville brass band
discoursed uncertain music to the appreciative throng.

But it is not with the celebration of Dominion Day that you and I are
concerned, much as we should enjoy an afternoon with the husky young
athletes of the prairie. Other events, essential to the progress of our
story, were under way, and demand our attention.

By common consent the Plainville stores remained open on Dominion Day
until eleven in the forenoon, when they closed to enable the proprietors
and their staffs to enjoy the day's celebration. It had been a busy
forenoon, and Burton was hurriedly sweeping up behind the grocery
counter after the blinds had been drawn, when Graves approached and
leaned over the counter, watching him. Burton was conscious of the eyes
upon him, and at length looked up. It was evident his fellow employee
had something on his mind.

"I want to say that I have a rather disagreeable piece of information
for you, Burton," said Graves, after a moment's hesitation. "Did you
ever wonder why I came out here and took this job with Gardiner?"

"No, I can't say that I did," the other replied. "I supposed you were
looking for employment and this was the first thing to turn up. But
there has been nothing disagreeable to me about it."

"Unfortunately there will be, shortly, and I assure you the whole thing,
as it is turning out, is little to my liking. Burton, you're not
suspicious enough for a criminal career. Do I look like a store clerk?"

There was a touch of sarcasm in the last two words which did not escape
his hearer, but the reference to a criminal career had cut much deeper.

"What do you mean?" he demanded. "What right have you to speak to me in
this way?"

"Now don't get angry," said Graves. "You lost your temper here once
before, and while I don't say I blame you, the rough-house with Elton
didn't improve your case any. Fact is, if you can't see it for yourself,
that I'm not here to sell goods, but to _watch you_!"

"Watch me?" exclaimed Burton, straightening up and taking in the other
man at a glance as though measuring him physically. "Then you're a----"

"A detective. Yes."

"Well, what have you found? Can you add anything to a bunch of keys and
a suspicion?"

"I haven't found much yet, but I expect to shortly. That's why I wanted
to speak to you now. I have a warrant to search your room and personal
belongings, and I propose to do so to-day. It's altogether
unprofessional in me to tip you off, but, hang it, I like you, Burton,
and if there's any changes you want to make down there slip away and get
them done, and I won't be down for half-an-hour."

"Changes? What changes should I want to make? Your words are an insult,
Graves, and if it were not for your evident sincerity I'd start making
the changes right here and now. No, I want no changes! Bring all the
world along, and let them see me searched in public."

"You carry it with a high hand, my young friend," said Graves. "However,
I can do no more than warn you. Shall we go now? There should be at
least one other present."

"Mr. Gardiner has just gone down to Goode's with some butter. We will
detain him as a witness, if you think it necessary," was Burton's reply;
"come, I am ready."

The two young men walked down the street, thronged with buggies, wagons
and automobiles, until they reached Mrs. Goode's boarding-house. At the
door they met Gardiner.

"Mr. Gardiner, will you do me a favour? I find that I have been working
alongside of a detective, instead of a store clerk, as I imagined. He
has a warrant to search my room. Will you come along, as a witness?"

"Why, yes, if you ask me to. This is a surprise for me. Graves, you need
not report for work to-morrow morning."

The three went up to room sixteen. As they were about to enter Polly
Lester came out. "I was just finishing tidying up," she explained to Mr.
Gardiner. Since the night at the river Burton had not spoken to her nor
recognised her existence.

The detective began with Burton's clothes. He searched all the pockets
and felt the fabric generally to ascertain if anything might be quilted
into it. Then he examined the bed, feeling the pillows and mattress very
carefully. Then the washstand and bureau received attention, but without
revealing anything of moment.

"There is only the trunk left," said Graves. "Will you let me have the
key?"

"Go ahead; it isn't locked," Burton returned. "I wish you joy of all you
find."

Each article in the trunk was lifted out and set on the bed, carefully.
Graves was at least a thorough workman. At last there were only a few
items in the bottom of the trunk, and Gardiner was about congratulating
Burton, when the detective cried, "Hello, what have we here?"

Both spectators rushed to his side. At the very bottom of the trunk lay
a large envelope, on which two large wax seals were visible.

"That looks like it," said Gardiner, in a tense voice. "Dig it out."

The package was produced and held before Burton. The young man was too
astonished for speech.

"Well, what have you to say about it?" said Graves, at last.

"It is the stolen package," said Burton, with a dry sob. "But how it got
there God only knows." He put his hand to his head; he looked around as
one dazed, bewildered; his eye fell on the crack of the door, and
through that crack he caught the gleam of another eye, blue-black as a
hail-cloud on a summer night. He gasped, and would have rushed for the
door, but Graves detained him.

"There's no hurry, Burton," he explained. "Perhaps you will see your way
to make a clear breast of this business. If Mr. Gardiner gets his money
back I think he might be big-hearted enough to withdraw the charge,
although you have no right to expect such treatment from him, after
betraying his trust in this way, and then trying to brazen it out as you
have done. Of course, it's a criminal charge, and out of Gardiner's
hands, but there's more ways of killing a dog than choking it with
butter. I have something to do with the Department, and I promise you
that if you come out and clean this thing up and express your regret
there'll be no true bill found against you. The money is all there,
isn't it?"

"I don't know. I didn't know any of it was there. I----"

Gardiner picked up the package and turned it over in his hands; suddenly
it almost dropped from his fingers. "This package has been opened," he
said to Graves.

The detective took it and withdrew the bills. They were bright, new ten
dollar bank notes. He counted them.

"Well, I congratulate you, Gardiner. The package has been opened, but
only one bill is gone. And the serial letter and number compare with the
memo, furnished us by the bank. You have your money back, practically
complete. What am I to do with this man?"

"Let him go. Burton, I'm sorry," said Gardiner.

"No, I won't let him go," said Graves. "He has refused a fair chance of
liberty; now he must take the consequences. I advise you, Gardiner, to
withdraw your bail. One of these days this fine fellow will be across
the line."

"Leave that to me," said Gardiner, shortly.

Within an hour the finding of the stolen money in Burton's trunk was a
general topic in the town; by evening it was common knowledge among all
the crowd assembled for the sports.

Burton went straight to the store and locked himself in. Neither the
streets nor the grounds were any place for him that day. Presently
Gardiner let himself in and discovered the young man in the office.

"Burton," he said, speaking with some difficulty, "this is a bad mess.
There was every reason to expect your acquittal until this turned up.
Now--well, now you're in for it."

The young man sat with his face between his hands, and made no reply.

At length Gardiner continued. "I hate to think you guilty, Burton, I
really do, for your own sake, and for your father's, and for
your--friends! But what else can I think? And if I, who have stood by
you, protesting you innocent, all along, must admit your guilt, what
will the people in the town and country, who are only too glad to
believe evil, think of you? You will be a marked man, and an avoided
man. I don't like to say it, but it is quite impossible for me to keep
you any longer in my employ. The fact is, Burton, you're up against it.
I don't want to see you go to jail, but if you come to trial that's
what's going to happen. If you take my advice you'll get out while the
coast is clear."

"But you are my bondsman! You will have to forfeit the bail!"

"I know. But I am willing to do that, to see you safe at liberty. I may
lose the bail, but I have the money back, so I'm really nothing more
out. You can get across the line to-night, and work west or south or
east. The world is big, and if you straighten up you will soon find
chances of useful life. If you go to jail your life is ruined, but if
you take my advice you may still be a credit to yourself."

"They'll follow me," the young man moaned. "They'll get me anywhere."

"No, they won't. If you were a murderer, or a criminal of that sort,
public opinion would keep them after you, but a case of this kind is
really a private matter after all, and will soon be forgotten. Have you
money?"

"A little."

Gardiner took a roll from his pocket. "There is a hundred dollars," he
said. "That should see you out of harm's way."

"I can't take it, Mr. Gardiner; I really can't. You have done too much
for me already."

"Take it as a loan, then.... Well, think it over. I'll leave it here in
the till, and if you're as wise as I take you to be, both you and the
money will be missing to-night. Good-bye, Burton," he said, but without
offering to shake hands. "I have to drive out to Grant's."

There was a significance in the last remark that did not escape Burton.
As he sat in the dimly lighted office in the dark, empty, silent store,
the ruins of his life came crashing down upon him. He tried to think
calmly, to collect his thoughts, but his mind was a chaos of emotions.
Out of the maze of perplexities, complete mysteries and half known
truths more baffling still, a few characters, a few incidents, gradually
distinguished themselves. The night at Grant's, the singer, and his
recital, spoken to an audience but aimed at one soul; the sacramental
day at Crotton's Crossing, again in memory he rehearsed it; he recalled
the great stone, he saw the faces blend in the smiling water, and the
solemn red sun look through the serried bars--! Ah, the bars! Prophetic
vision which he had left unread! Bars, bars between him and the
sunlight! Yes, bars, and cold, wet stone walls. They stared at him now,
they glared at him, wet and shiny, out of the dark corners. They circled
him, they compassed him, they crowded him. Bars, and stones, and water!
They would strip him of the dress of civilization and clothe him in the
garb of infamy. They would feed his body with prison fare, but his soul
they would leave to shrivel and starve. However innocent he might go in,
only a criminal could he come out. There was something worse than being
a fugitive. Better to defy the law and the officers of the law than to
let them thrust him into the criminal mill. Gardiner was right. He would
fly. The world was large, there still was a chance for him, he would
learn to live--and forget.

A mental numbness followed the strain of these thoughts; he did not
sleep, but he lost consciousness of time. When he came to himself it was
quite dark, and he was hungry. He groped his way through the store and
found some cheese and biscuits, which he thrust into his pocket. Then he
remembered the money Gardiner had left, but as he reached to take it
from the drawer his hand paused, irresolute. Surely Gardiner had done
enough for him; Gardiner, who had gone his bond and then urged him to
fly. He turned away, the money untouched.

Burton let himself out by a side door; the outer air was strangely hot
and oppressive. He heard many voices, and a babel of strange, confused
sounds; horses being hurried into shafts, automobiles whirring along the
streets. He made his way to a lane, and a large drop of rain spat on his
face. His eyes were as yet unaccustomed to distant objects, but he
turned to the west and beheld the heavens a-seethe with lightning--not a
vivid glare that blinds the beholder, but a bright silvery flush playing
like the aurora behind a mass of dark-blue cloud. Burton knew the
country well enough to read the menace at a glance; the heavy blue-black
cloud riding ahead of the storm never hunts except for big game. The air
was oppressively still, but shortly it would be torn with the violence
of the tornado; the half-obscured lightning, now playing all the way
from the horizon to the zenith, would break in jagged, white-hot thunder
bolts through the uneven atmosphere, and at its heels would come the
deluge of rain and, perhaps, hail. It was not an uncommon scene; once or
twice a season these terrifying storms were to be expected, and farmer
and merchant alike watched anxiously for the straight, misty, greyish
cloud and listened for the accompanying rumble of the dreaded hail.

But to the fugitive the threatened storm meant nothing. The warfare of
the elements could tear no deeper than the warfare of his own soul; the
fire-edged death from heaven would furnish honourable end to a
discouraging struggle. Avoiding the main roads, he made his way into the
country, but on every trail were rigs driving by at high speed. The
drivers and occupants were much too concerned with the problem of
getting home dry and safe to pay attention to pedestrians on the road,
and he walked on mechanically, confident that none recognised him and
that none cared.

The early darkness closed down quickly; the great cloud in advance of
the storm, rolling in the heavens like a mighty fish, had swept far to
the eastward; the lightning now played in dazzling flashes from cloud to
cloud and from cloud to earth, its zig-zag course marking the rarer
atmospheres, and accompanied by a growing, growling chorus of thunder as
the menagerie of the skies roared and crackled on the crest of the
storm. The blinding light left the eyes useless in the dark, and it was
with difficulty Burton followed the trail.

Presently the rain came on. Swept by a mighty wind that overturned more
than one top buggy that night, a few great, scattered drops dashed
against the ground, then the wind subsided and was followed by a sudden
stillness so intense it could be felt. But it was for an instant; a
great rift of lightning shook the clouds asunder and their pent-up load
of moisture poured out upon the earth. In a moment Burton was drenched
to the skin; the prairie roads were running in water; and as he
floundered on a cold wind struck him that brought a shiver, not for
himself, but for the farmers whose fortunes were all on the growing
fields. Then the thought came to him that if he should be caught
unprotected in the hail he would be killed. He had faced the lightning
without fear, but the prospect of being gradually pummelled to death was
not inviting, and he began to look about for some place of shelter. It
was not until now that he realised he had paid no attention to the
course he took, and although most of the country was familiar to him in
daylight he had no idea where he was. To his great relief a warm breeze
sprung up, which indicated that the hail strip was narrow and had
probably chosen another course, and he struggled on through mud and
water hoping that every flash of lightning would reveal some place of
shelter. But the country seemed strangely desolate, and the night must
have been half spent before he caught an instant's glance of a building.
He pressed toward it, and another flash revealed a deserted log hut
which he now recalled as being only a few miles from town and but a
short way from the main road that led to Grant's. The windows were gone
and the door was off its hinges, but it would at least be better than
outside, and he hurried toward it. As he did so through the darkness he
fancied he saw a gleam of light in the deserted building. It was not
lightning, and yet he could have sworn it was no trick of the
imagination or the nerves. As he drew nearer he saw it again--a dull
flicker lighting up the square framed by the empty window. Stealthily he
approached the building.




CHAPTER X--PLAYING THE GAME


    "Hear ye a little lesson--can ye the truth divine?
    Milk ye may mix with water, and water will mix with wine;
    Mix as ye may on your prairies, mix in your hope and toil,
    But know in all your mixing that water won't mix with oil!"

                                              _The Empire Builders._

With only one run to the good, Harry Grant in the pitcher's box, the
bases full and nobody out, the finish of the ninth inning in the last
game of the Dominion Day tournament looked gloomy enough for Plainville.
The sun was gilding the crest of a great cloud which was already casting
its shadow over the prairie, the air was close and hot, the band had
long since exhausted their repertoire, and its members, big-lipped from
their day's exertions, gazed dry-throated at the tragedy on the diamond;
the Plainville backers, who all day long had placed their two to one on
the home team, were stamping up and down behind the ropes that winged
the grounds, chewing their cigars and swearing vaguely. The "rooting"
was over; there is a point beyond which no loyalty can "root"; the
situation was too dramatic for speech. Even the supporters of the
opposing team were too excited to hollo, they had holloed all day
against discouraging odds, and now, when a little lung power might well
have been brought to the support of their favourites, they found
themselves voiceless from sheer exhaustion and surprise.

In a buggy facing the grounds from the right fielder's corner sat
Gardiner and Miss Vane. The bright face and the electric mouth seemed
intent upon the game before them, but in the eyes was a hollow look that
might have told any keen observer the brain was wandering in far fields.

"It's bad," said Gardiner. "The worst possible. He can never climb out
of that hole."

"At any rate he will try," said the girl, absently. "You think he will
run away?"

Gardiner turned and looked at his companion quizzically. She gave a
little start and a flush stole through the deep ivory of her cheeks and
forehead. "I--I beg your pardon," she stammered. "I was thinking."

"You are thinking too much. If I had known it would spoil your day's
enjoyment I would not have told you."

"How could you think otherwise? You know he was, that is, he is, our
friend."

"Just a friend--is that all?" Gardiner pressed the question.

"Oh, look, that is two strikes. Harry is keeping his head. Let us watch
the game," and Miss Vane seemed lost in the scene before her.

The ropes along the wings stretched and swung with the mass of humanity
leaning over them; in the grand-stand every eye was on the pitcher, as
tense as though life itself depended upon the delivery of the next ball.

Harry saw one crooked finger below his catcher's mitt, and prepared a
hot in-shoot. An out and a drop were responsible for the batter's two
previous abortive swats, and this change should fool him. A right hand
batter seldom looks for an in-shoot with the bases full; the chance of a
walk is so big it frightens most pitchers, but Harry's catcher had
decided on heroic measures.

The base runner from third led up. Standing on his right foot, an inch
outside the pitcher's box, Harry feinted at third and drove the
adventurous runner back; the next instant he was back in the box and had
delivered the ball to the batter.

But his caution was his undoing. He purposely threw a little wide, to
avoid the possibility of striking the batter. Six feet from the base the
ball broke and cut straight for the centre of the plate. It was only a
fraction of an instant, but in that fraction the batter swung and caught
it a straight drive over second. A yell broke from his sympathisers as
he dashed for first.

Billy Haynes, the hardware clerk, was holding down second. Billy was
long and agile and a rapid thinker. He had the two first requisites of a
baseballer--a quick eye and a quick brain. As he saw the hot shot coming
four feet above his head he sprang two steps backward, jumped, and
brought it to earth, dropping it as he fell. The next instant he had one
hand on his base and the other on the ball, and almost before the umpire
could detect the play he had thrown, not to home, but first. For an
instant the third base runner hesitated, fearing a caught fly, and that
instant cost his side the game. He fully expected Haynes would play
home, and hesitated again; when he saw the ball delivered to first he
dashed forward, but he was too late. The sphere seemed hardly to stop at
first at all; it simply changed its course there and shot home, beating
the runner to the plate by a good two feet. The game was over.
Plainville had won. It was the only triple play seen on that diamond for
many a day, and the crowd went wild with enthusiasm. Billy Haynes was
borne aloft by his admirers, and the other participants in the play were
thumped and shaken by the hero-hungry mob. By dint of much profanity the
band leader was able to muster two cornets, a trombone and a base drum
to play the National Anthem as the crowd hurried from the grounds. It
would soon be closing time at the village bars, and there were many
thirsts to liquidate.

But even as they walked the short distance from the grounds to the town
the minds of the visitors were turned to another matter. The sun was
obscured, and up from the west a great mass of cloud heaved higher and
higher. The old-timers needed no second glance; a Dominion Day storm was
considered as much a matter of course as the baseball tournament and the
football game between English and Canadians, and young men and old
hurried to the livery stables and the stock-yards, where their horses
were tied, in an endeavour to get home before the weather broke.

Gardiner drove up town for a waterproof, and by the time he and Miss
Vane were at last on the road to the Grant homestead it had grown quite
dark. It was the eastern girl's first experience with a severe electric
storm on the prairie; several thunder showers had swept by during June,
but nothing so terrifying as this. The lightning became more and more
vivid, and after every flash the horse would pause, uncertain of his
footing in the darkness. Then the distant growl of the thunder added its
accompaniment, steadily growing in volume and intensity. Gardiner was
not an expert horseman and had some difficulty in keeping the animal on
the road. The poor creature had little relish for the trip and would
have much preferred to hurry back to his stable in town.

Suddenly a terrific squall of wind burst upon them, and before Gardiner
had time to square the horse up to it it had tipped the buggy and
whipped the reins from his hand. The animal, terrified by the storm,
staggering over one shaft, and feeling all control removed, dashed in a
panic across the prairie. Presently the rig struck a post, the shafts
were torn free, and the horse disappeared in the darkness.

Gardiner extricated himself from the wreckage. "Are you hurt, Miss
Vane?" he asked, anxiously.

"No, I think not," said the girl, as she dragged herself free. "Oh!" A
smothered cry escaped her lips.

"You are hurt," said Gardiner, as he raised her in his arms. "You are
hurt. Tell me. Let me help you."

The gale had swept by, and the air was very still and warm.

"No, I am not hurt--much," she answered. "But we cannot stay here. It
will rain soon, and the lightning is--" She closed her eyes. "Can't we go
somewhere? Can't we walk home?"

"I am afraid we must try," said her companion. "Or I might go back to
town for another rig?"

"No, we will walk home. We must be more than half way. Let me see--what
direction is that?"

"South, I think."

"No, it must be west. Surely it is west?"

"Let us follow the fence; it must lead somewhere."

At that moment a tongue of fire came leaping along the upper wire of the
fence. Both drew back, as though to dodge the electric current.

"The further from the fence the better," said Gardiner. "There is no
place so dangerous in a thunderstorm. Let us keep to the middle of the
roadway."

They moved to the right, but at the first step a groan escaped the
girl's lips. "My ankle," she moaned. "I--I must have hurt it."

Gardiner stood irresolute. "Can you lean on it at all?" he asked.

She placed her weight gently upon the ankle, but a flash of lightning
revealed a wince of pain across her face.

"I must carry you somewhere," said Gardiner. "We cannot stay here. The
rain is coming on, and perhaps hail with it. We shall be drenched, at
least."

"I think I can walk if you will help," she ventured bravely. "Stand
here, to the right. Let me rest my arm on your shoulder."

He obeyed. Resting her right hand on his left shoulder she limped
painfully a short distance through the darkness. The rain began to fall
in great scattered drops, then a vicious rent of lightning seemed to
shake the whole heavens, and it fell in floods.

They had worked their painful way about fifty yards. The road was now
running in water, and the slippery mud made walking still more
difficult. One little shoe drew off and was lost. At every flash they
took their bearings for a few feet further, but it became more and more
evident they would be unable to reach shelter.

"You must leave me," she said at last, shouting in his ear to make
herself heard. "I cannot go much further. You can find your way to town,
or perhaps to a neighbour's, and get another buggy. I will stay here."

"Then I will stay with you," her companion answered. "I cannot leave you
alone on the prairie in such a night. Besides, I don't know where we
are. I would never find my way back. We must--hello, what is that?"

"What? I saw nothing."

"Look this way." He pointed through the darkness. "Watch for the next
flash."

They had not long to wait. In a moment another bolt lit up the prairie
in all directions.

"It is a building--an old house, I think," she said. "I can walk that
far. It will be better than the prairie."

With much effort they dragged their way toward the building. It proved
to be a little log structure, built by a homesteader in the early days.
The windows were gone and the door was off its hinges, but inside was
comparatively dry. In an inner pocket Gardiner found some matches that
gave promise of a light. He struck one; it flared for an instant and was
whipped out by the breeze. But it had revealed a partition running
through the middle of the building. They groped their way around it and
found a more protected corner. Here he struck another match. It burned
steadily, disclosing a little, low room, papered with heavy building
paper. Against the logs of the outer wall tar paper had been nailed, but
years of damp and wind had loosened this pioneer protection, and the
paper now hung in long shreds or curled in uncertain rolls about the
bottom of the walls. The floor was decayed and broken through in several
places, as though cattle had walked on the rotten boards, and from the
sod roof the water trickled in little streamlets.

With a sigh of relief Miss Vane seated herself in a corner. "This is
better than outside at least," she said.

"Yes, indeed," Gardiner agreed. "By means of this tar paper and some of
these broken boards we will start a fire. We can surely find water
enough to hold it in check."

In a few minutes he had a little fire burning. Part of a broken crock
was found, and with this filled with water he stood guard over man's
best servant.

As the fire flickered up its light fell on the face of the girl, pale
and drawn with pain. The young man looked at her helplessly, and then
ventured, "You are suffering, Miss Vane. I wonder if you would let me be
surgeon?"

"Yes," she answered, simply.

He removed the shoe. The buckles were cutting into the flesh.

"No bones broken, I think," he said, after a brief survey, "but a bad
sprain."

With the scissors which every store clerk carries he cut away the foot
of the stocking. The ankle was badly swollen and discoloured.

Gardiner removed his coat and deftly cut the lining out of it. This he
cut into strips, and, dipping the strips in water, bandaged the injured
member. Presently the inflammation was somewhat relieved and the pain
became more bearable.

"You are very good," the girl whispered. "I feel better now."

"I am glad of that," he answered. "The accident is most regrettable, and
the fault is all mine."

"Not at all. It was an accident, and an accident is not a fault."

"Do you believe that these accidents are preordained--that they are part
of some great scheme of management, that we but vaguely recognise?"

"I don't know. I suppose there is a purpose to all things--even to this
sprained ankle." She smiled faintly. "If there is no purpose in little
things there can be no purpose in life, as life is made up of little
things."

He seized at her answer. "And what purpose, can you guess, lay behind
this mishap?"

"A warning, no doubt, in future to be home before dark," she answered,
with a return of her natural spirit. "And I shall have such splendid
hair after this rain-water bath."

The little fire flickered and shifted with every gust of wind that stole
into even this protected corner. The rain fell in torrents on the sod
roof and washed down the log walls of the hut. The lightning was
incessant, the thunder terrific, and as they spoke the trumpetings of
heaven often choked the words in their mouths.

"No," said Gardiner at length, "there was a deeper purpose in your
misfortune. It seems too bad to profit by it, but don't you know--can't
you see, Miss Vane, that I have wanted so long an opportunity to talk
with you alone?"

She drew up slightly in the corner where she sat, but did not speak.

"You must know that I have sought your company--your company, and none
but yours--since the night I first saw you. My interest--my attention--must
have told you long ago--that which I would speak to you in words
to-night."

He was standing, gazing at her across the fire. For months he had
rehearsed his declaration, and he felt that he had made a good start.
She had not stopped him, and he was encouraged.

"I am very tired," she murmured.

"As you said a little while ago, surely there must be a purpose in all
things," he continued. "Surely it was such a purpose that brought you to
Plainville, and permitted me to know the charm of your personality--the
sweet delight of your companionship. Miss Vane--Myrtle--I love you--have
loved you since first my eyes fell on your fair face--shall love you
always. May I hope?"

She looked up; in her eyes was a strange gleam that sent the young man's
pulses throbbing. Had he known her better he would have read a different
meaning in that deep light.

She waited until the echoes of a crack of thunder died away, and then
asked, very quietly, "Is it quite fair to press your question after all
that has happened to-day?"

For the moment he was taken back. "Of course, you know, I don't mean to
take any advantage," he stammered. "Certainly you are suffering, and I
must wait your answer until you can think it over calmly. Is it very
painful?"

"Oh, the ankle? I wasn't thinking about it."

"What then?"

"What, you ask? Oh, cannot you see, either? Must I tell you in so many
words?"

"Burton!" he exclaimed. "It is of him you are thinking?"

"How could I forget--so soon? You said he would fly--even now he is
probably a fugitive from jus--from the law.... It is a fitting night for
such a tragedy in his life. And still, black as it all looks, I cannot
think but he is more sinned against than sinning."

"Your loyalty does you credit. Burton is fortunate in having such a
friend." Under the soft voice there was just the suggestion of a sneer.

"Nevertheless," she said, ignoring his remark, "Burton will come back to
trial, if indeed he ever leaves. His innocence will yet be established."

"Your faith is equal to your loyalty," he answered. "I wish I could have
the same confidence. Indeed, I did believe in him until this latest
development, but now--one must believe his eyes," he said, with a shrug
of the shoulders. "I suppose I shall lose the amount of his bail, but I
forfeit it gladly for the sake of his liberty. I count such losses
nothing, if only I may hope to gain--what I have asked to-night."

"I cannot answer you now. You have been too good to me, and to my
friend, to be denied without at least the courtesy of consideration."

"Your words carry little encouragement. Listen. While I do not press for
an answer, surely I may state my case. I can offer you much that appeals
to every woman. I am not rich, but I have a profitable business. No
woman in Plainville will be better provided for. In a few years I hope
to have saved enough to enter business in a larger centre, and introduce
you to circles where your personality will command the admiration it
deserves. As for this boy----"

She made a gesture of dissent. "Your argument makes no appeal to me, Mr.
Gardiner. A profitable business is a small thing to offer for a woman's
affections. You undervalue the prize you seek. And if social status were
a consideration to me----" She left the sentence unfinished, but Gardiner
thought he understood.

"Forgive me if I have seemed to place too much stress on material
things. I merely wish to satisfy you that my declaration--my love--is
reasonable, and that I am in a position to carry it out to its logical
conclusion. Now, tell me I may hope?"

"Hark! What was that?" she whispered, her face tense with excitement.
"Surely I heard a sound?"

"It is nothing. The thunder, or the wind, or the rain. On such a night
the air is full of sound."

"But this was different; a real sound, a _human_ sound. I was sure I
heard it."

"Your nerves are playing tricks on you to-night, Miss Vane. I assure you
there was no sound but the elements. Compose yourself, and tell me I may
hope."

"I can tell you nothing now."

"Then to-morrow?"

"No, not to-morrow."

"When then? Set a limit to my uncertainty."

"Not until after the trial."

"Burton's trial. If he should be acquitted?"

"You will know your answer."

"And if convicted?"

"Then I will take time. Oh, please don't force me to be unkind. I cannot
give myself--you would not take the gift--without love. I must analyse my
own heart, and I cannot do that while this cloud hangs over--us. When it
has dispersed, or settled, I will know."

He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips. "You are kind," he
said, "and fair."




CHAPTER XI--A FRIEND IN NEED


    "Oh, I take 'em from the counter, the factory, the mine,
    They are rough-and-ready rascals till I lick 'em into line;
    They are coming, coming, coming, from the land of Who-Knows-Where,
    Black and white and many-tinted, brown and yellow, dark and fair;
    They are coming from the valley, from the prairie, from the hill,
    They are coming from the 'May I?' to the country of 'I will!'
    And for some the smart of failure, and for some Achievement's
       crown,
    As I roll 'em out Canadians--all but the yellow and brown."

                                              _The Empire Builders._

Burton looked cautiously through the window. A little fire was burning
on the wet floor, and between him and the fire stood Gardiner, facing
the corner in which Miss Vane sat, pale and troubled. With a gasp he
sank to the earth. What tragedy was this, enacted before his eyes? Why
were these two here, in such a place, at such a time? Could not
revengeful Providence spare him even this? Why had he been led through
that howling night to this spot, to this scene, of all the places on the
great prairie?

His first impulse was to rush in, throttle Gardiner, and escort Miss
Vane home. He stole back to the window with this determination in his
heart, but a second look at the girl made him pause. Whatever the
explanation of her presence here she was evidently not a prisoner. She
was talking with Gardiner, talking in a low voice which he could not
hear for the din of the night. But there was no anger in her eyes,
rather a deep sorrow, and the sympathetic quiver of her lip, which
passed across it even more quickly than the uncertain flicker of the
fire, brought a lump to the boy's throat and banished every thought of
forcible intrusion. After all, Gardiner had been a good friend to him.
Had he withdrawn his bond after the discovery of the money, as most men
would, Burton at this moment would not have been at liberty. And, while
he could not understand their presence here at such a time and in such a
manner, it might be that after all a satisfactory explanation could be
given. Certainly he could not improve the situation by intruding.

They were talking earnestly, in short, tense sentences. Then Miss Vane
spoke at a little greater length, kindly, as he thought, as one may do
who does not wish to wound a friend, and Gardiner took her hand in his
and raised it to his lips.

Burton waited for nothing more. He drew away from the window as quietly
as he had come and started his tramp through mud and water back to town.
He had now one thought only, to get away, to escape, to forget
Plainville and Plainville people for ever. The last thin, silvery, cord,
stronger in its slender weave than any cable of steel, which had bound
him to the place was broken, snapped at the distant end. It still wound
round his heart and would deepen and tighten there forever, but its
other anchorage was gone. The pain was there but the restraint was
removed; Plainville was now less to him than any town of the great new
West. And to that great new country he would take himself, as quickly
and as cunningly as he knew. They would think he had crossed the line,
that would be the natural conclusion; instead, he would beat his way
into one of the new provinces and lose himself in the desolation of a
homestead far from the furthest edge of civilisation.

Burton thought these things out as he tramped the muddy road, guided by
the incessant lightning which still played in the heavens, although the
force of the storm had passed to the eastward. The revival of a purpose
was as a rudder to his life; again he threw back his shoulders and drank
in the night air, purified and vitalized by the hundred million volts of
electricity shot through it in the last few hours. He was tired and wet,
but his mind had been revived from its stupor, and he tasted the strange
delight of the hunted man--the joy of matching his wit against the united
wit of society and the machinery of government. As the fox who eludes
the hounds may well be conceived to glory among his fellows over his
accomplishment, so hunted man glories in his ability to outwit his
pursuers, and in addition can take the heroic attitude of the one
against the million.

As he approached the town he left the main road and swung down toward
the river, where was a water-tank beside the railway bridge. It was the
custom of the west-bound freights to take water at this tank, and he
trusted to a happy chance that such a train might come along before
daylight.

As though to encourage him in his new resolve he had scarcely reached
the tank when he heard the whistle of an approaching train. He walked
back along the track, keeping well into the shadow of the cut-bank. The
engines on that division did not use electric lights, and he had little
fear of being seen by the crew as they swept past.

The train pulled up slowly, the engineer having allowed for a wet rail
and shut off steam well down the line. He slid a little past the tank on
his first stop and was obliged to back up a rail-length; meanwhile
Burton had located a car with a threshing separator and engine on it,
and had little difficulty in getting on board while the tender was
receiving water. Feeling cautiously about the separator, he soon found
an open trap-door with a space inside large enough to accommodate him,
and here he concealed himself. It was dry in there, and the night was
still warm with lightning; he huddled himself up and almost before the
train was in motion had fallen asleep.

When he awoke he was sore in every joint, and at first he stared in
bewilderment at the slats and pulleys about him. But he soon recalled
that he was a fugitive, a hunted man, a man who dared not travel under
the name his mother gave him, and the thought brought less enthusiasm
than he had felt the night before. He was conscious, also, of hunger,
and feeling in his pockets found some broken biscuits and a few crumbs
of cheese. These he ate eagerly and settled back again to wait for the
train to resume its journey.

As time wore on and the train did not start the boy became impatient,
and at last ventured to look out. The car on which he had concealed
himself stood alone, on a side track at a flag station where it had been
set off in the early morning. He was not more than forty miles from
Plainville, and in a country where he might easily be identified. He saw
a farm house about half-a-mile away, and as the sun was approaching the
zenith he doubted not that inside were a pot of boiling potatoes and a
roast of beef, with the best the good wife's garden could produce. He
had only a few cents in his pocket, but a good muscle in his arm, and
was not afraid to work for a meal, but he feared to reveal himself lest
it might later lead to his identification. After thinking it over he
decided to remain in his hiding place until dark, when he would steal to
the farmer's garden and ward off starvation

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