For the first time in my healthy life I knew what it was to want sleep.
After my father’s enemy had left me, taking that paper upon which he
set so much store, I lay awake for hours. Despite my ignorance, I
felt that the old idle life was done, that the new and stranger had
already commenced, and the way ahead looked dark. At sunrise I went to
the river and bathed, and after early breakfast set out for the Fort.
MacCaskill was splitting logs in front of the store, and did not cease
from his occupation while I was telling him of the coming of Redpath.
When I had done he sat down and refilled his pipe; after some
storm-like puffs he asked me what I had made out of it, and when I
helplessly shook my head, he spoke.
“What I know of your father ain’t scarce worth talkin’ about. He
stopped here fifteen years, but kept himself buttoned up all the time.
I knew his name. I knew he’d been a miner. I knew he was an Englishman.
The rest is loose in me fancy. Like to hear?”