Amongst the few who knew Robert Fisher Clark at all well, for there
were not many of them, there was no question as to his beliefs. It was
too obvious that his primary faith was in himself. Nor is it known
whether, at any time, he gave any thought or study to the character of
those with whom, in the course of his remarkably active life, he came
into association. Always it appeared that there was laid upon him the
responsibility of doing things which did not occur to the ordinary man,
and he went about them with such supreme confidence and unremitting
enthusiasm that he infused into his followers much of his communicable
zeal. It appears now that Clark weighed a man by appraising the degree
to which he contributed to the work in hand, and automatically set
aside those whom he considered contributed nothing to his object. He
was the most unattached personality it is possible to imagine.
Whatever passion or reaction he may have experienced was always a
matter for him alone, and something that he underwent in the remoteness
of an astonishingly exclusive brain. That he experienced them is
without doubt, but they were revealed in the intensity of action and
the quick resiliency of renewed effort.
It was not known, either, whether he believed in chance, or in those
tiny eventualities which so often impress a definite color on
subsequent years. The trend of his mind was to move forward rather
than back, and it is questionable if he gave much thought to second
causes. The fruit dangled before his eye even as he planted the vine,
and if this induced in him a certain ruthlessness it could only be
because those who are caught up in high endeavor to reach the mountain
tops must perforce trample many a lowland flower beneath their eager
feet.
And yet it was chance that brought Clark to St. Marys, chance that he
should be in a certain train at a given time, and above all it was
chance that he should overhear a certain conversation, but it was not
by any means chance that he should interpret the latter as he did.
The train was lurching over an uneven track that wound through the
woods of western Ontario when, staring thoughtfully out of the window
at the tangled bush, he caught from across the aisle the drift of talk
that was going on between two strangers.
"And so," said one of them, "the thing went smash for lack of just two
things."
"And what were they?"
"Some more money and a good deal more experience."
Clark raised his head ever so slightly. Money and experience--the lack
of them had, to his personal knowledge, worked disaster in a wider
circle than that of St. Marys. He had heard of the place before, but
that was years ago. Presently one of the strangers continued.
"It was after the railway came that the people in St. Marys seemed to
wake up. They got in touch with the outside world and began to talk
about water power. You see, they had been staring at the rapids for
years, but what was the value of power if there was no use to which to
put it? Then a contractor dropped in who had horses and tools but no
job."
"So that's what started it?"
"Exactly. The idea was small enough to begin with and the town just
wanted power for light and water works, so they gave the contractor the
job, borrowed a hundred and thirty thousand dollars, and got the
necessary land from the Ottawa government. I've an idea that if those
rights ever get into experienced hands you'll hear a good deal more of
St. Marys than you ever heard before."
"And then?"
"The town went broke on the job. Mind you, they had a corking
agreement with the government and a block of land alongside the rapids
big enough for a young city. The mistake was they hadn't secured any
factory. Also they needed about five times as much money."