It was getting dark, and a keen wind blew across the ragged pines
beside the track, when Jake Foster walked up and down the station at
Gardner's Crossing in North Ontario. Winter was moving southwards fast
across the wilderness that rolled back to Hudson's Bay, silencing the
brawling rivers and calming the stormy lakes, but the frost had
scarcely touched the sheltered valley yet and the roar of a rapid
throbbed among the trees. The sky had the crystal clearness that is
often seen in northern Canada, but a long trail of smoke stretched
above the town, and the fumes of soft coal mingled with the aromatic
smell of the pines. Gardner's Crossing stood, an outpost of advancing
industry, on the edge of the lonely woods.
The blue reflections of big arc-lamps quivered between the foam-flakes
on the river, a line of bright spots, stretching back along the bank,
marked new avenues of wooden houses, and, across the bridge, the tops
of tall buildings cut against the glow that shimmered about the town.
At one end rose the great block of the Hulton factory, which lost
something of its utilitarian ugliness at night. Its harsh, rectangular
outline faded into the background of forest, and the rows of glimmering
windows gave it a curious transparent look. It seemed to overflow with
radiance and filled the air with rumbling sound.
In a large measure, Gardner's Crossing owed its rapid development to
the enterprise of the Hulton Manufacturing Company. Hulton was ready
to make anything out of lumber for which his salesmen found a demand;
but his firm grip on the flourishing business had recently relaxed, and
people wondered anxiously what would happen if he did not recover from
the blow that had struck him down. Fred Hulton, his only son, and
assistant treasurer to the Company, had been found in the factory one
morning with a bullet-hole in his head, and it was believed that he had
shot himself. His father gave his evidence at the inquiry with stern
self-control, but took to his bed afterwards and had not left it yet.
So far as the townsfolk knew, this was the first time he had shown any
weakness of body or mind.
The train was late, but Foster enjoyed the pipe he lighted. It was ten
years since he landed at Montreal, a raw lad without friends or money,
and learned what hard work was in a lumber camp. Since then he had
prospered, and the strenuous life he led for the first few years had
not left much mark on him. Now he thought he had earned a holiday, and
all arrangements for his visit to England were made. Featherstone, his
partner, was going with him. Their sawmill, which was run by
water-power, had closed for the winter, when building material was not
wanted, and the development of a mineral claim they owned would be
stopped by the frost. They had planned to put in a steam engine at the
mill, but the Hulton Company had delayed a contract that would have
kept the saws running until the river thawed.
Foster, however, did not regret this. Except on Sundays, he had seldom
had an hour's leisure for the last few years. Gardner's Crossing,
which was raw and new, had few amusements to offer its inhabitants; he
was young, and now he could relax his efforts, felt that he was getting
stale with monotonous toil. But he was a little anxious about
Featherstone, who had gone to see a doctor in Toronto.
A whistle rang through the roar of the rapid and a fan-shaped beam of
light swung round a bend in the track. Then the locomotive bell began
to toll, and Foster walked past the cars as they rolled into the
station. He found Featherstone putting on a fur coat at a vestibule
door, and gave him a keen glance as he came down the steps. He thought
his comrade looked graver than usual.
"Well," he said, "how did you get on?"
"I'll tell you later. Let's get home, but stop at Cameron's drug store
for a minute."
Foster took his bag and put it in a small American car. He drove
slowly across the bridge and up the main street of the town, because
there was some traffic and light wagons stood in front of the stores.
Then as he turned in towards the sidewalk, ready to pull up, he saw a
man stop and fix his eyes on the car. The fellow did not live at the
Crossing, but visited it now and then, and Foster had met him once when
he called at the sawmill.
"Drive on," said Featherstone, touching his arm.
Although he was somewhat surprised, Foster did as he was told, and when
they had passed a few blocks Featherstone resumed: "I can send down the
prescription to-morrow. That was Daly on the sidewalk and I didn't
want to meet him."
A minute later Foster stopped to avoid a horse that was kicking and
plunging outside a livery stable while a crowd encouraged its driver
with ironical shouts. Looking round, he thought he saw Daly following
them, but a man ran to the horse's head and Foster seized the
opportunity of getting past.
"What did the doctor tell you?" he asked.
"He was rather disappointing," Featherstone replied, and turned up the
deep collar of his coat.
Foster, who saw that his comrade did not want to talk, imagined that he
had got something of a shock. When they left the town, however, the
jolting of the car made questions difficult and he was forced to mind
his steering while the glare of the headlamps flickered across deep
holes and ruts. Few of the dirt roads leading to the new Canadian
cities are good, but the one they followed, though roughly graded, was
worse than usual and broke down into a wagon trail when it ran into
thick bush. For a time, the car lurched and labored like a ship at sea
up and down hillocks and through soft patches, and Foster durst not
lift his eyes until a cluster of lights twinkled among the trees. Then
with a sigh of relief he ran into the yard of a silent sawmill and they
were at home.
Supper was waiting, and although Foster opened a letter he found upon
the table, neither of the men said anything of importance during the
meal. When it was over, Featherstone sat down in a big chair by the
stove, for the nights were getting cold. He was about thirty years of
age, strongly built, and dressed in city clothes, but his face was
pinched. For part of the summer, he and Foster had camped upon their
new mineral claim in the bush and worked hard to prove the vein. June,
as often happens in Canada, was a wet month, and although Featherstone
was used to hardship, he sickened with influenza, perhaps in
consequence of digging in heavy rain and sleeping in wet clothes. As
he was nothing of a valetudinarian he made light of the attack, but did
not get better as soon as he expected on his return, and went to see
the Toronto doctor, when Foster urged him.
The latter lighted his pipe and looked about the room. It was warm and
well lighted, and the furniture, which was plain but good, had been
bought, piece by piece, to replace ruder articles they had made at the
mill. One or two handsome skins lay upon the uncovered floor, and the
walls were made of varnished cedar boards. A gun-rack occupied a
corner, and the books on a shelf indicated that their owners had some
literary taste, though there were works on mining and forestry. Above
the shelf, the huge head of a moose, shot on a prospecting Journey to
the North, hung between the smaller heads of bear and caribou.
Foster, who had hitherto lived in tents and shacks, remembered his
misgivings when they built the house. Indeed, he had grumbled that it
might prove a dangerous locking up of capital that was needed for the
enlargement of the mill. Featherstone, however, insisted, and since
most of the money was his, Foster gave in; but they had prospered since
then. They were good friends, and had learned to allow for each
other's point of view during several years of strenuous toil and stern
economy. Still, Foster admitted that their success was not altogether
due to their own efforts, because once or twice, when they had to face
a financial crisis, the situation was saved by a check Featherstone got
from home. By and by the latter turned to his comrade.
"Your letter was from Hulton, wasn't it? What does he want?"
"He doesn't state, but asks us to call at the factory to-morrow
evening. That's all, but I heard in town that the doctor and nurse had
left; Cameron told me Hulton fired them both because they objected to
his getting up."
"It's possible," Featherstone agreed. "Hulton's not the man to bother
about his health or etiquette when he wants to do a thing. Anyhow, as
he has been a pretty good friend of ours, we will have to go, but I
wouldn't have imagined he'd have been ready to talk about the tragedy
just yet."
"You think that is what he wants to talk about?"
Featherstone nodded. "We knew Fred Hulton better than anybody at the
Crossing, and at the inquiry I tried to indicate that his death was due
to an accident. I imagined that Hulton was grateful. It's true that I
don't see how the accident could have happened, but I don't believe
Fred shot himself. Though it was an open verdict, you and I and Hulton
are perhaps the only people who take this view."
"We'll let it drop until to-morrow. What did you learn at Toronto?"
"Perhaps the most important thing was that I'll have to give up my trip
to the Old Country."
"Ah," said Foster, who waited, trying to hide his disappointment and
alarm, for he saw that his suspicions about his partner's health had
been correct.
"The doctor didn't think it wise; said something about England's being
too damp, and objected to a winter voyage," Featherstone resumed. "It
looks as if you were better at calculating the profit on a lumber deal
than diagnosing illness, because while you doctored me for influenza,
it was pneumonia I had. However, I admit that you did your best and
you needn't feel anxious. It seems I'm not much the worse, though I'll
have to be careful for the next few months, which I'm to spend on the
Pacific slope, California for choice. It's a bit of a knock, but can't
be helped."
Foster declared his sympathy, but Featherstone stopped him. "There's
another matter; that fellow Daly's here again. I expect you guessed
what he came for the last time?"
"I did. The bank-book showed you drew a rather large sum."
"No doubt you thought it significant that the check was payable to
myself?"
Foster was silent for a moment or two. He trusted his comrade, but
suspected that there was something in his past history that he meant to
hide. For one thing, Featherstone never spoke about his life in the
Old Country, and Foster was surprised when he stated his intention of
spending a few months there. It looked as if Daly knew his secret and
had used his knowledge to blackmail him.
"I'll go to California with you," he said. "One place is as good as
another for a holiday, and I'm really not keen on going home. I've no
near relations and have lost touch with my friends."
"No," said Featherstone, with a grateful look. "I want you to go to
England and stay with my people. I haven't said much about them, but
you'll find they will do their best to make things pleasant. Anyhow,
it's time you knew that I left home in serious trouble and meant to
stop away until I thought the cause of it forgotten. Well, not long
ago, I heard that the man I'd injured was dead, but had sent me word
that as I had, no doubt, paid for my fault in this country, I'd nothing
more to fear. Then Daly got upon my track."