KIT GOES VISITING
Kit pushed some calculations across the office table, and tilting his
chair against the wall, put his feet on the stove. His gum boots were
battered, but his clothes were good. His shirt was striped and his
blue tie was knitted silk. The color harmonized with his blue eyes and
sunburned skin. Scale drawings and patterns covered the cracked
matchboard walls. Oil-drums occupied a corner, and measuring tools
were on the table. In the austerely utilitarian office Kit’s careless
pose was somehow foreign.
Austin concentrated on some plans. His clothes were gray and his look
was sober. Kit thought the tools and oil-drums were in the picture;
Bob, so to speak, was utilitarian. He had recently married, and
sometimes Kit speculated about Mrs. Austin. By and by Kit lighted a
cigarette.
“To slack up is something fresh, but on the whole I think I’m entitled
to take a quiet smoke. I’d sooner play the fiddle, but Wheeler is
about, and to inform the camp I’m relaxing might be rash. In Canada
you’re a strenuous lot.”
“I expect that is so,” Austin agreed. “Canada’s a hard country; one’s
forced to hustle.”
“You like to hustle; you feel loafing’s wrong. One senses the Puritan
vein, and I imagine your ancestors were the folks we shipped off to
New England when they made us tired. The reformation had some
drawbacks. It banished the joy of life.”
“I reckon the Puritans went and had some trouble to make their
get-away,” Austin rejoined. “My folks, however, are Ontario Scots,
good old-fashioned Presbyterians. You’re another stamp, and I like
your sporting clothes. I expect you burned the other lot?”
“Not at all,” said Kit. “I gave Pete a dollar to boil the articles and
they are in the trunk your baggage-handlers smashed. In the North of
England we are not extravagant. Then, although my luck’s been pretty
good, sometimes one’s luck turns.” He paused and gave Austin a
friendly smile when he resumed: “I expect I owe my getting a soft job
to your meddling, Bob.”
“Oh, shucks! Wheeler’s pretty keen, and he had spotted you; but I want
to talk about another thing. Wheeler will be around for the week-end,
and since all is pretty straight I expect he’d give us a holiday. I’m
going to Fairmead, and Carrie wants to meet you. Will you come along?”
“If Wheeler agrees, I’ll be happy to go,” said Kit.
Wheeler was willing, and when the construction train went down the
line Kit was on board. A battered car waited at a flag-station by a
tank and carried them noisily across the plain. Summer and the
boisterous winds and thunderstorms were gone. The afternoon was calm,
and after his labors at the bridge Kit got a sense of brooding
tranquillity. In the foreground the grass was gray and silver; in the
distance all was misty blue. The sunshine touched the bluffs and ponds
with subdued yellow light.
The plain rolled, and the trail went up rises and plunged into
ravines. Sometimes it curved round fences, and when fresh wire blocked
the way the driver swore.
“The blamed country’s filling up,” he said. “Not long since you could
drive straight to the United States. Soon you’ll be forced to keep the
road reserve.”
Brick homesteads and windmill frames began to dot the prairie, and Kit
saw belts of wheat. Sometimes the binders’ varnished arms tossed in
the tall grain, but for the most part red-gold stooks dotted the long
fields. Wagons rolled about the stubble, smoke trailed languidly
across the sky, and dust clouds marked the spots where the threshers
were at work.
One machine was near the trail, and Kit saw chaff and beaten straw
fall like a yellow cataract from the elevator. Where the stuff came
down sweating men piled bags of grain.
“A prairie wheat bin; the fellow means to hold his crop,” Austin
remarked. “When I first knew the prairie the storekeeper took the lot
and charged ten per cent, on the bill he carried over. He couldn’t
take the farm, because another fellow held a mortgage. When the farmer
had had enough, he quit, and all his creditors found was a notice,
‘Pulled out for British Columbia.’ The hard men stayed with it, and
although some grumble they acknowledge they got their reward. Well,
railroading’s strenuous, but by contrast with farming I reckon it
easy. What’s your notion, Dick?”
The driver turned and grinned. “I’d sooner drive a flivver over the
meanest trail. Them fellows began at sun-up and they won’t stop so
long as they can see. Packing two-hundred-pound wheat-bags soon makes
me tired.”
“But what helped the farmers to make good?” Kit asked.
“In Canada the question is, _who_ helped? You think us a sober lot,
but Nature’s our antagonist, and the fight is pretty stern. At the
beginning, the settlers’ wheat rusted, was hailed out, and frozen in
the fall. Then the scientific experimenter got to work. He
cross-fertilized the plants and grew wheat that ripened before the
frost arrived. To haul wheat a long distance to the elevators is
expensive, and our railroad engineers pushed branch tracks across the
plains. We don’t go where the traffic waits; we shove ahead into the
wilds and the traffic follows us. Our roads are rough, but the cars
get there.”
“In Manitoba railroads will soon be numerous,” Kit remarked. “For all
that, cultivation’s spotty. The province is an old province, but one
crosses belts where one does not see a homestead. How do you account
for it?”
“Now I’m beaten! Perhaps our temperament accounts for something. We
like fresh ground, and we like to go as far as possible. In the sandy
belts, blowing grit cuts the wheat, and in places the water’s
alkaline. All the same, when you can get gumbo soil in Manitoba, to
start for the Peace River isn’t sensible. In fact, on the plains
settlement’s capricious. Saskatoon, so to speak, sprang up, but
Regina’s growth was slow. Brandon’s old and small, and Fairmead, for
example, has not grown for twenty years.”
“Quit talking and hold tight!” said the driver, and they plunged into
a ravine.
Somehow they got round the corner by the narrow bridge, but the front
wing was over the creek. On the hill in front the car rocked, rattled
savagely, and stopped.
“She won’t make it with three aboard,” said the driver. “You got to
get down and shove.”
Kit and Austin jumped down, and at a soft spot the other joined them,
but he did not stop the engine.
“The rut will hold her straight, and I guess she won’t get away from
us,” he said.
Kit looked up the curving trail. The boggy soil was torn by wheels and
the pitch was very steep. Small poplars and willows covered the
awkward slope.
“I think you might risk it.”
“When Blain was riding to the station one day his car stalled. He got
down to shove some brush under her wheels. She knocked him over and
went off.”
“Where did she go?” Kit inquired.
“I wasn’t around,” said the driver. “Blain allowed she went up a
tree!”
They pushed the car up the hill, and when they got on board Kit
remarked: “To haul their wheat across must bother the farmers.”
“They use the new elevators along our line,” Austin replied. “Before
the track was built they dumped their loads at the bridge and carried
the bags across the boggy piece. A four-bushel bag weighs pretty near
two hundred and fifty pounds.”
“Something of a job where ravines are numerous!” said Kit in a
thoughtful voice. “One likes the fellows’ pluck.”
By and by they got down at a small station, and soon afterwards a
black smoke plume rolled across the plain. The locomotive hauled two
cars, and Kit, sitting by a window, saw shining ponds, birch and
poplar bluffs, and rows of stooked sheaves on yellow stubble. The
light was going, but men and teams labored in the fields and the smoke
from the threshers floated about the sky.
At Fairmead three grain elevators like castles broke the sweep of
plain. Dim lights burned behind high windows and wheels throbbed. Dark
boxcars blocked the tracks and a yard locomotive pushed a fresh row
across the switches. The beams from the engines’ headlamps joined, and
for half a mile the silver light flashed along a waiting train. The
new wheat was going East.
When Kit left the station he thought Fairmead marked by a prosperous
and friendly calm. The wide street was evenly graded and went up a
gentle incline. The wooden sidewalks were broad and level, and a
printed notice warned strangers that one was fined for expectorating
on the boards.
Two wooden hotels and three or four stores occupied the bottom of the
hill, and Kit noted indistinct groups on the verandas and the grocery
steps. Behind the sidewalks were trees and garden lots. The trees were
small, for the prairie winds are keen, and the gardens were not
fenced. To look up the hill was like looking across a long, narrow
lawn.
Kit thought the little frame houses picturesque, but they got
indistinct and for the most part the lamps were not lighted. The
evening was calm, and quiet voices indicated that family groups took
the air by the front porch. One, however, heard mosquitoes, and
sometimes Kit rubbed his neck. He approved Fairmead. For a prairie
settlement, the town was old, and it looked as if the citizens were
rather tranquilly satisfied than vulgarly ambitious.
At the top of the street Austin went up a short path. Lights pierced
the trees in front of a house, and Kit thought about the evening
Alison and he went drearily along the avenue by the river at Winnipeg.
Now he was not a stranger, but he speculated about Alison. He wondered
whether she was happy, and resolved to find out.
A woman came down the steps and kissed Austin. She gave Kit her hand
and they went into the house. The matchboarded hall was narrow, and
when Mrs. Austin pushed back a door Kit stopped, for Alison got up
from a chair in the little room. Her clothes were fashionable, her
pose was confident, and her look was bright. Kit had known she had
charm, but now he felt her charm was marked, and when he saw her smile
was for Austin he was moved by unreasonable jealousy. Then she saw
Kit, and a touch of color came to her skin.
“Why, Kit! I didn’t know——”
Kit advanced, and when Alison gave him her hand her look was frank and
kind.
“I didn’t know,” he said. “The joke is Mrs. Austin’s. All the same, I
meant to look you up.”
Alison said nothing. She could talk to Kit again, and she wondered. On
the whole, she thought Mrs. Austin experimented.
Mrs. Austin beckoned Kit and he was presented to Miss Florence Grey.
Miss Grey declared politely she was pleased to meet him, but he felt
her searching glance was hostile. Moreover, he was puzzled. Alison had
talked about joining an English friend, but he thought Miss Grey
altogether North American. Her accent, her clothes, and her rather
aggressive look certainly were not English.
“You were some time at the bridge?” she said, as if Kit’s being there
was an offense.
“That is so,” he agreed. “When they allowed me to stop I was lucky.”
“Perhaps your job’s important,” Miss Grey remarked. “Bob Austin comes
over week-ends, but then he’s a boss.”
“I dare say that explains it. You see, the boys eat on Sundays, and
when you help the cook you can’t very well get off.”
“Don’t I know?” said Miss Grey in a scornful voice. “For some time I
was at a prairie farm, and loafing men eat double. But did you help
the cook?”
“Sure,” said Kit. “I cut potatoes, fried pork, and cleaned the
plates.”
Miss Grey coolly studied him. Kit’s clothes were good; he was rather a
handsome fellow and one got a hint of cultivation.
“Then, since they let you stop, I reckon your luck was good.”
“One on you, Kit!” said Austin. “But supper’s ready. Come along.”
They went to another room, and when Kit saw Miss Grey opposite him
across the table he was rather resigned than pleased. She, however,
was Alison’s friend and he gave her an interested glance. She was thin
and her mouth was ominously firm, but although her look was scornful
he thought her sincere. Her color was not, like Alison’s, delicate and
fresh. Miss Grey had occupied small rooms and borne the stove’s dry
heat; she, rather evidently, used powder.
“You’re a Toronto girl, Carrie,” she remarked to Mrs. Austin. “Toronto
folks have homes and don’t live at restaurants. I hope you won’t
hustle us. I like to squander a few minutes over supper.”
“We will not get up until you wish to, and if you like, we’ll stop for
half an hour. How long do they allow you at the bridge, Mr. Carson?”
“At the bunk-house ten minutes, and as a rule I was left. When Bob and
I dine at the office fifteen minutes sees us out. You’re a hospitable
lot, but to hold on for half an hour at Western speed is impossible.”
“Then you think us hospitable?”
“I have some grounds, ma’am. When I got off the cars, I was tired and
hungry, but my wad was five dollars, and I saw I must not be
extravagant——” “Was that all, Kit?” Alison inquired, and blushed.
“About five dollars,” said Kit with some embarrassment. “Well, a
storekeeper gave me an iced drink and a can of fruit. At the bridge
the cook gave me supper and appointed me his musician. Soon afterwards
a man I met on the cars got me a job at the forge. When you know
yourself a stranger things like that weigh.”
“Jock’s a Scot,” Austin remarked.
“He was born in Scotland, and the storekeeper stated he was sent out
by an English orphanage; but they’re now Canadians. One observes that
when an Old Country man has been a few years in Canada he is stanchly
Canadian. I expect the fellows who don’t like you soon go back.”
“It’s possible,” said Austin and gave Miss Grey a smile. “You’re good
mixers.”
Florence Grey looked up and her eyes sparkled.
“In England I was poor and nobody had much use for me. For long I went
without proper food; I wore shabby clothes and lived at crowded
lodgings. In Manitoba I got a fighting chance and fair pay for all I
did. I’m happy at Fairmead and my friends are good. Canada’s my
country; I’ve no use for the other.”
Austin was quiet and Kit said nothing. He thought Miss Grey challenged
him, but he was not going to dispute. Although he thought poverty did
not altogether account for her bitterness, her argument was logical.
“I rather think in Canada we use a standard model,” Mrs. Austin
remarked. “We are a democracy, and a democracy works for a uniform
type. Well, it has some advantages——”
“So long as the type’s a good type, ma’am,” said Kit.
Mrs. Austin smiled. “Your approval’s flattering, but I have known
Englishmen who did not agree. Their model was not our model. There’s
the drawback of standardizing.”
By and by she got up. Austin went with Kit and Alison to another room,
put out some cigarettes, and vanished. A rattling noise indicated that
Mrs. Austin carried off the plates, and Kit thought Bob and Miss Grey
helped. All was strangely like the suppers at Blake’s flat, but Kit
did not want to dwell on that. Alison occupied the little couch, and
he would sooner talk.
“Perhaps the couch suggests it, but I see you on the bench at Winnipeg
station,” he remarked.
“Ah,” said Alison, “don’t you see the emigrants lying about the
flags?”
“They’re the background for the picture,” said Kit. “When I think
about the waiting-room, the crowd is indistinct.”
Alison gave him a friendly smile. “You cheated me on the train. You
forced me to take your sleeper ticket, and I did not pay for half the
food. Yet all you had was five dollars.”
“You didn’t get half the food,” Kit rejoined. “Perhaps I was not quite
honest about the ticket, but I admitted my dishonesty before.”
“Well, I oughtn’t to be embarrassed because you were kind; but I
didn’t know, and, by contrast, I was rich. Besides, I was going to
Florence, and you had not a friend.”
“I had my fiddle, and the trail was open. I’d wanted to be a minstrel
and I got my chance, but I admit I didn’t reckon on fiddling for the
cook.”
“In a way, it was humorous,” said Alison in a gentle voice. “When
Austin told me I laughed, but I wasn’t altogether amused. Sometimes
one laughs when one is sorry. Yet I liked to think about your getting
up at daybreak and playing for the men. You see, Austin talked about
you; he knew I was interested.”
Kit was rather embarrassed. Alison had followed his adventures, but he
had not bothered to find out about her. All the same, he had wanted to
find out. The obstacle was, he was going to marry Evelyn, and he was
flesh and blood.
“I’d sooner you told me something about yourself,” he said.
Alison indulged him. She had found a post at a creamery. On the whole,
she liked the post and the pay was good. That was all. When she
stopped Miss Grey came in.
“On the plains men help clean up after supper, but I expect you had
enough at the camp,” she said to Kit. “Your sort’s fastidious.”
“Do you know my sort?” Kit inquired.
“Oh, yes. In the Old Country I knew one or two like you. The stamp is
plain, but in Manitoba it’s not admired.”
Kit was puzzled. He wondered whether Miss Grey was antagonistic to the
stamp she thought he wore or to him himself. To see Mrs. Austin arrive
was some relief.
“Oh, well,” he said. “I have cleaned supper plates, and my notion is,
where food must be served and the tables cleared at high speed, a man
can beat a very active woman. Would you like to try?”
“Mrs. Austin’s plates are thin, and in Canada crockery is expensive.
The food men cook at construction camps only construction gangs can
eat.”
“Yet you declare I’m fastidious!”
“I expect you were hungry. A man’s appetite is remarkable,” Miss Grey
rejoined.
“You must not dispute, and Mr. Carson is going to play for us,” said
Mrs. Austin, and Kit tuned his violin.
At ten o’clock Miss Grey stated firmly that she and Alison must go,
and Kit turned to Austin.
“Cannot we fix up a picnic for to-morrow, Bob? I expect I could get a
car.”
“Your idea’s good. Lost Lake’s picturesque,” Austin agreed.
“You mustn’t reckon on me,” said Miss Grey. “If I go, Ted Harries will
drive me to the lake.”
“But you will go with Mrs. Austin?” Kit asked Alison.
“I’d like to go,” said Alison, and when she went off all was arranged.
Mrs. Austin did not come back from the porch, and Austin gave Kit a
cigarette.
“Florence rather got after you!”
“I really don’t see why I annoyed her. I felt as apologetic as I felt
when I faced the lady at the railroad inquiry office.”
Austin smiled. “Florence is certainly fierce, but she’s stanch, and so
long as she is about nobody will hurt Alison. When she arrived she was
employed as bookkeeper at Jason’s grocery. Jason’s old and something
of a slouch; his wife is an invalid, but they were good to Florence
and she’s a first-class business woman. When she took control all went
straight, and Jason’s customers found out they must meet their bills.
The opposition store tried to bribe her by high pay, but Florence
stops with Jason. Now perhaps you get her. Well, let’s join Carrie on
the porch.”