CHAPTER I

LISTER'S GREAT ADVENTURE

BY HAROLD BINDLOSS

_Author_ of "THE WILDERNESS MINE," "WYNDHAM'S PAL," "PARTNERS OF THE

OUT-TRAIL," "THE BUCCANEER FARMER," "THE LURE OF THE NORTH," "THE GIRL

FROM KELLER'S," "CARMEN'S MESSENGER," ETC.

1920

CONTENTS

PART I--BARBARA'S REBELLION

CHAPTER

I CARTWRIGHT MEDDLES

II IN THE DARK

III BARBARA VANISHES

IV THE GIRL ON THE PLATFORM

V SHILLITO GETS AWAY

VI WINNIPEG BEACH

VII LISTER'S DISSATISFACTION

VIII THE TEST

IX BARBARA PLAYS A PART

X VERNON'S CURIOSITY

PART II--THE RECKONING

I VERNON'S PLOT

II BARBARA'S RETURN

III LISTER CLEARS THE GROUND

IV A DISSATISFIED SHAREHOLDER

V CARTWRIGHT'S SCRUPLES

VI A NASTY KNOCK

VII THE SHAREHOLDERS' MEETING

VIII A STOLEN EXCURSION

IX CARTWRIGHT SEES A PLAN

X A BOLD SPECULATION

XI THE START

PART III--THE BREAKING STRAIN

I THE FIRST STRUGGLE

II THE WRECK

III A FUEL PROBLEM

IV MONTGOMERY'S OFFER

V MONTGOMERY USES HIS POWER

VI LISTER MEETS AN OLD ANTAGONIST

VII BARBARA'S REFUSAL

VIII CARTWRIGHT GETS TO WORK

IX LISTER MAKES GOOD

X BARBARA TAKES CONTROL

XI LISTER'S REWARD

PART I--BARBARA'S REBELLION

CHAPTER I

CARTWRIGHT MEDDLES

Dinner was over, and Cartwright occupied a chair on the lawn in front of

the Canadian summer hotel. Automatic sprinklers threw sparkling showers

across the rough, parched grass, the lake shimmered, smooth as oil, in

the sunset, and a sweet, resinous smell drifted from the pines that

rolled down to the water's edge. The straight trunks stood out against a

background of luminous red and green, and here and there a slanting beam

touched a branch with fire.

Natural beauty had not much charm for Cartwright, who was satisfied to

loaf and enjoy the cool of the evening. He had, as usual, dined well,

his cigar was good, and he meant to give Mrs. Cartwright half an hour.

Clara expected this, and, although he was sometimes bored, he indulged

her when he could. Besides, it was too soon for cards. The lights had

not begun to spring up in the wooden hotel, and for the most part the

guests were boating on the lake. When he had finished his cigar it would

be time to join the party in the smoking-room. Cartwright was something

of a gambler and liked the American games. They gave one scope for

bluffing, and although his antagonists declared his luck was good, he

knew his nerve was better. In fact, since he lost his money by a

reckless plunge, he had to some extent lived by bluff. Yet some people

trusted Tom Cartwright.

Mrs. Cartwright did so. She was a large, dull woman, but had kept a

touch of the beauty that had marked her when she was young. She was

kind, conventional, and generally anxious to take the proper line.

Cartwright was twelve years older, and since she was a widow and had

three children when she married him, her friends declared her money

accounted for much, and a lawyer relation carefully guarded, against

Cartwright's using her fortune.

Yet, in a sense, Cartwright was not an adventurer, although his ventures

in finance and shipping were numerous. He sprang from an old Liverpool

family whose prosperity diminished when steamers replaced sailing ships.

His father had waited long before he resigned himself to the change, but

was not altogether too late, and Cartwright was now managing owner of

the Independent Freighters Line. The company's business had brought him

to Montreal, and when it was transacted he had taken Mrs. Cartwright and

her family to the hotel by the Ontario lake.

Cartwright's hair and mustache were white; his face was fleshy and red.

He was fastidious about his clothes, and his tailor cleverly hid the

bulkiness of his figure. As a rule, his look was fierce and commanding,

but now and then his small keen eyes twinkled. Although Cartwright was

clever, he was, in some respects, primitive. He had long indulged his

appetites, and wore the stamp of what is sometimes called good living.

The managing owner of the Independent Freighters needed cleverness,

since the company was small and often embarrassed for money. For the

most part, it ran its ships in opposition to the regular liners. When

the _Conference_ forced up freights Cartwright quietly canvassed the

merchants and offered to carry their goods at something under the

standard rate, if the shippers would engage to fill up his boat. As a

rule, secrecy was important, but sometimes, when cargo was scarce,

Cartwright let his plans be known and allowed the _Conference_ to buy

him off. Although his skill in the delicate negotiations was marked, the

company paid small dividends and he had enemies among the shareholders.

Now, however, he was satisfied. _Oreana_ had sailed for Montreal, loaded

to the limit the law allowed, and he had booked her return cargo before

the _Conference_ knew he was cutting rates.

Mrs. Cartwright talked, but she talked much and Cartwright hardly

listened, and looked across the lake. A canoe drifted out from behind a

neighboring point, and its varnished side shone in the fading light.

Then a man dipped the paddle, and the ripple at the bow got longer and

broke the reflections of the pines. A girl, sitting at the stern, put

her hands in the water, and when she flung the sparkling drops at her

companion her laugh came across the lake. Cartwright's look got keen and

he began to note his wife's remarks.

"Do you imply Barbara's getting fond of the fellow?" he asked.

"I am afraid of something like that," Mrs. Cartwright admitted. "In a

way, one hesitates to meddle; sometimes meddling does harm, and, of

course, if Barbara really loved the young man--" She paused and gave

Cartwright a sentimental smile. "After all, I married for love, and a

number of my friends did not approve."

Cartwright grunted. He had married Clara because she was rich, but it

was something to his credit that she had not suspected this. Clara was

dull, and her dullness often amused him.

"If you think it necessary, I won't hesitate about meddling," he

remarked. "Shillito's a beggarly sawmill clerk."

"He said he was _treasurer_ for an important lumber company. Barbara's

very young and romantic, and although she has not known him long--"

"She has known him for about two weeks," Cartwright rejoined. "Perhaps

it's long enough. Shillito's what Canadians call a looker and Barbara's

a romantic fool. I've no doubt he's found out she'll inherit some money;

it's possible she's told him. Now I come to think about it, she was off

somewhere all the afternoon, and it looks as if she had promised the

fellow the evening."

He indicated the canoe and was satisfied when Mrs. Cartwright agreed,

since he refused to wear spectacles and own his sight was going.

Although Clara was generous, he could not use her money, and, indeed,

did not mean to do so, but he was extravagant and his managing owner's

post was not secure. When one had powerful antagonists, one did not

admit that one was getting old.

"I doubt if Shillito's character is all one could wish,'" Mrs.

Cartwright resumed. "Character's very important, don't you think? Mrs.

Grant--the woman with the big hat--knows something about him and she

said he was _fierce_. I think she meant he was wild. Then she hinted he

spent money he ought not to spend. But isn't a treasurer's pay good?"

Cartwright smiled, for he was patient to his wife. "It depends upon the

company. A treasurer is sometimes a book-keeping clerk. However, the

trouble is, Barbara's as wild as a hawk, though I don't know where she

got her wildness. Her brother and sister are tame enough."

"Sometimes I'm bothered about Barbara," Mrs. Cartwright agreed. "She's

rash and obstinate; not like the others. I don't know if they're tame,

but they had never given me much anxiety. One can trust them to do all

they ought."

Cartwright said nothing. As a rule, Clara's son and elder daughter

annoyed him. Mortimer Hyslop was a calculating prig; Grace was finicking

and bound by ridiculous rules. She was pale and inanimate; there was no

blood in her. But Cartwright was fond of the younger girl. Barbara was

frankly flesh and blood; he liked her flashes of temper and her pluck.

When the canoe came to the landing he got up. "Leave the thing to me,"

he said. "I'll talk to Shillito."

He went off, but when he reached the steps to the veranda in front of

the hotel he stopped. His gout bothered him. At the top Mortimer Hyslop

was smoking a cigarette. The young man was thin and looked bored; his

summer clothes were a study in harmonious colors, and he had delicate

hands like a woman's. When he saw Cartwright stop he asked: "Can I help

you up, sir?"

Cartwright's face got red. He hated an offer of help that drew attention

to his infirmity, and thought Mortimer knew.

"No, thanks! I'm not a cripple yet. Have you seen Shillito?"

"You'll probably find him in the smoking room. The card party has gone

in and he's a gambler."

"So am I!"

Mortimer shrugged, and Cartwright wondered whether the fellow meant to

imply that his gambling was not important since he had married a rich

wife. The young man, however, hesitated and looked thoughtful.

"I don't know your object for wanting Shillito, but if my supposition's

near the mark, might I state that I approve? In fact, I'd begun to

wonder whether something ought not to be done. The fellow's plausible.

Not our sort, of course; but when a girl's romantic and obstinate--"

Cartwright stopped him. "Exactly! Well, I'm the head of the house and

imagine you can leave the thing to me. Perhaps it doesn't matter if your

sister is obstinate. I'm going to talk to Shillito."

He crossed the veranda, and Mortimer returned to his chair and

cigarette. He did not approve his step-father, but admitted that

Cartwright could be trusted to handle a matter like this. Mortimer's

fastidiousness was sometimes a handicap, but Cartwright had none.

Cartwright entered the smoking-room and crossed the floor to a table, at

which two or three men stood as if waiting for somebody. One was young

and tall. His thin face was finely molded, his eyes and hair were very

black, and his figure was marked by an agile grace.

He looked up sharply as Cartwright advanced.

"I want you for a few minutes," Cartwright said roughly, as if he gave

an order.

Shillito frowned, but went with him to the back veranda. Although the

night was warm and an electric light burned under the roof, nobody was

about. Cartwright signed the other to sit down.

"I expect your holiday's nearly up, and the hotel car meets the train in

the morning," he remarked.

"What about it?" Shillito asked. "I'm not going yet."

"You're going to-morrow," said Cartwright grimly.

Shillito smiled and gave him an insolent look, but his smile vanished.

Cartwright's white mustache bristled, his face was red, and his eyes

were very steady. It was not for nothing the old ship-owner had fronted

disappointed investors and forced his will on shareholders' meetings.

Shillito saw the fellow was dangerous.

"I'll call you," he said, using a gambler's phrase.

"Very well," said Cartwright. "I think my cards are good, and if I can't

win on one suit, I'll try another. To begin with, the hotel proprietor

sent for me. He stated the house was new and beginning to pay, and he

was anxious about its character. People must be amused, but he was

running a summer hotel, not a gambling den. The play was too high, and

young fools got into trouble; two or three days since one got broke.

Well, he wanted me to use my influence, and I said I would."

"He asked you to keep the stakes in bounds? It's a good joke!"

"Not at all," said Cartwright dryly. "I like an exciting game, so long

as it is straight, and when I lose I pay. I do lose, and if I come out

fifty dollars ahead when I leave, I'll be satisfied. How much have you

cleared?"

Shillito said nothing, and Cartwright went on: "My antagonists are old

card-players who know the game; but when you broke Forman he was drunk

and the other two were not quite sober. You play against young fools and

_your luck's too good_. If you force me to tell all I think and

something that I know. I imagine you'll get a straight hint to quit."

"You talked about another plan," Shillito remarked.

"On the whole, I think the plan I've indicated will work. If it does not

and you speak to any member of Mrs. Cartwright's family, I'll thrash you

on the veranda when people are about. I won't state my grounds for doing

so; they ought to be obvious."

Shillito looked at the other hand. Cartwright's eyes were bloodshot, his

face was going purple, and he thrust out his heavy chin. Shillito

thought he meant all he said, and his threat carried weight. The old

fellow was, of course, not a match for the vigorous young man, but

Shillito saw he had the power to do him an injury that was not

altogether physical. He pondered for a few moments, and then got up.

"I'll pull out," he said with a coolness that cost him much.

Cartwright nodded. "There's another thing. If you write to Miss Hyslop,

your letters will be burned."

He went back to the smoking-room, and playing with his usual boldness,

won twenty dollars. Then he joined Mrs. Cartwright on the front veranda

and remarked: "Shillito won't bother us. He goes in the morning."

Mrs. Cartwright gave him a grateful smile. She had long known that when

she asked her husband's help difficulties were removed. Now he had

removed Shillito, and she was satisfied but imagined he was not.

Cartwright knitted his white brows and drew hard at his cigar.

"You had better watch Barbara until the fellow starts," he resumed.

"Then I think you and the girls might join the Vernons at their fishing

camp. Vernon would like it, and he's a useful friend; besides, it's

possible Shillito's obstinate. Your letters needn't follow you; have

them sent to me at Montreal, which will cover your tracks. I must go

back in a few days."

Mrs. Cartwright weighed the suggestion. Vernon was a Winnipeg merchant,

and his wife had urged her to join the party at the fishing camp in the

woods. The journey was long, but Mrs. Cartwright rather liked the plan.

Shillito would not find them, and Mrs. Vernon had two sons.

"Can't you come with us?" she asked. "Mortimer is going to Detroit."

"Sorry I can't," said Cartwright firmly. "I don't want to leave you, but

business calls."

He was relieved when Mrs. Cartwright let it go. Clara was a good sort

and seldom argued. He had loafed about with her family for two weeks and

had had enough. Moreover, business did call. If the _Conference_ found

out before his boat arrived that he had engaged _Oreana's_ return load,

they might see the shippers and make trouble. Anyhow, they would use

some effort to get the cargo for their boats. Sometimes one promised

regular customers a drawback on standard rates.

"I'll write to Mrs. Vernon in the morning," Mrs. Cartwright remarked.

"Telegraph" said Cartwright, who did not lose time when he had made a

plan. "When the lines are not engaged after business hours, you can send

a night-letter; a long message at less than the proper charge."

Mrs. Cartwright looked pleased. Although she was rich and sometimes

generous, she liked small economies.

"After all, writing a letter's tiresome," she said. "Telegrams are easy.

Will you get me a form?"

CHAPTER II

IN THE DARK

In the morning Cartwright told the porter to take his chair to the beach

and sat down in a shady spot. He had not seen Barbara at breakfast and

was rather sorry for her, but she had not known Shillito long, and

although she might be angry for a time, her hurt could not be deep.

Lighting his pipe, he watched the path that led between the pines to the

water.

By and by a girl came out of the shadow, and going to the small

landing-stage, looked at her wrist-watch. Cartwright imagined she did

not see him and studied her with some amusement. Barbara looked

impatient. People did not often keep her waiting, and she had not

inherited her mother's placidity. She had a touch of youthful beauty,

and although she was impulsive and rather raw, Cartwright thought her

charm would be marked when she met the proper people and, so to speak,

got toned down.

Cartwright meant her to meet the proper people, because he was fond of

Barbara. She had grace, and although her figure was slender and girlish,

she carried herself well. Her brown eyes were steady, her small mouth

was firm, and as a rule her color was delicate white and pink. Now it

was high, and Cartwright knew she was angry. She wore boating clothes

and had obviously meant to go on the lake. The trouble was, her

companion had not arrived.

"Hallo!" said Cartwright. "Are you waiting for somebody?"

Barbara advanced and sat down on a rocky ledge.

"No," she said, "I'm not waiting _now_."

Cartwright smiled. He knew Barbara's temper, and his line was to keep

her resentment warm.

"You mean, you have given him up and won't go if he does arrive? Well,

when a young man doesn't keep his appointment, it's the proper plan."

She blushed, but tried to smile. "I don't know if you're clever or not

just now, although you sometimes do see things the others miss. I really

was a little annoyed."

"I've lived a long time," said Cartwright. "However, perhaps it's

important I haven't forgotten I was young. I think your brother and

sister never were very young. They were soberer than me when I knew them

first."

"Mortimer _is_ a stick," Barbara agreed. "He and Grace have a calm

superiority that makes one savage now and then. I like human people, who

sometimes let themselves go--"

She stopped, and Cartwright noted her wandering glance that searched the

beach and the path to the hotel. He knew whom she expected, and thought

it would give her some satisfaction to quarrel with the fellow.

Cartwright did not mean to soothe her.

"Mr. Shillito ought to have sent his apologies when he found he could

not come," he said.

Barbara's glance got fixed, and Cartwright knew he had blundered.

"Oh!" she said, "now I begin to see! Mother kept me by her all the

evening; but mother's not very clever and Mortimer's too fastidious to

meddle, unless he gets a dignified part. Of course, the plot was yours!"

Cartwright nodded. Sometimes he used tact, but he was sometimes brutally

frank.

"You had better try to console yourself with the Wheeler boys; they're

straight young fellows. Shillito is gone. He went by the car this

morning and it's unlikely he'll come back."

"You sent him off?" said Barbara, and her eyes sparkled. "Well, I'm not

a child and you're not my father really. Why did you meddle?"

"For one thing, he's not your sort. Then I'm a meddlesome old fellow and

rather fond of you. To see you entangled by a man like Shillito would

hurt. Let him go. If you want to try your powers, you'll find a number

of honest young fellows on whom you can experiment. The boys one meets

in this country are a pretty good sample."

"There's a rude vein in you," Barbara declared. "One sees it sometimes,

although you're sometimes kind. Anyhow, I won't be bullied and

controlled; I'm not a shareholder in the Cartwright line. I don't know

if it's important, but why don't you like Mr. Shillito?"

Cartwright's eyes twinkled. In a sense, he could justify his getting rid

of Shillito, but he knew Barbara and doubted if she could be persuaded.

Still she was not a fool, and he would give her something to think

about.

"It's possible my views are not important," he agreed. "All the same,

when I told the man he had better go he saw the force of my arguments.

He went, and I think his going is significant. Since I'd sooner not

quarrel, I'll leave you to weigh this."

He went off, but Barbara stopped and brooded. She was angry and

humiliated, but perhaps the worst was she had a vague notion Cartwright

might be justified. It was very strange Shillito had gone. All the same,

she did not mean to submit. Her mother's placid conventionality had long

irritated her; one got tired of galling rules and criticism. She was not

going to be molded into a calculating prude like Grace, or a prig like

Mortimer. They did not know the ridiculous good-form they cultivated was

out of date. In fact, she had had enough and meant to rebel.

Then she began to think about Shillito. His carelessness was strangely

intriguing; he stood for adventure and all the romance she had known.

Besides, he was a handsome fellow; she liked his reckless twinkle and

his coolness where coolness was needed. For all that, she would not

acknowledge him her lover; Barbara did not know if she really wanted a

lover yet. She imagined Cartwright had got near the mark when he said

she wanted to try her power. Cartwright was keen, although Barbara

sensed something in him that was fierce and primitive.

Perhaps nobody else could have bullied Shillito; Mortimer certainly

could not, but Barbara refused to speculate about the means Cartwright

had used.

Shillito ought not to have gone without seeing her; this was where it

hurt. She was entitled to be angry--and then she started, for a page boy

came quietly out of the shade.

"A note, miss," he said with a grin. "I was to give it you when nobody

was around."

Barbara's heart beat, but she gave the boy a quarter and opened the

envelope. The note was short and not romantic. Shillito stated he had

grounds for imagining it might not reach her, but if it did, he begged

she would give him her address when she left the hotel. He told her

where to write, and added if she could find a way to get his letters he

had much to say.

His coolness annoyed Barbara, but he had excited her curiosity and she

was intrigued. Moreover, Cartwright had tried to meddle and she wanted

to feel she was cleverer than he. Then Shillito was entitled to defend

himself, and to find the way he talked about would not be difficult.

Barbara knitted her brows and began to think.

At lunch Mrs. Cartwright told her they were going to join the Vernons in

the woods and she acquiesced. Two or three days afterwards they started,

and at the station she gave Cartwright her hand with a smiling glance,

but Cartwright knew his step-daughter and was not altogether satisfied.

Barbara did not sulk; when one tried to baffle her she fought.

The Vernons' camp was like others Winnipeg people pitch in the lonely

woods that roll west from Fort William to the plains. It is a rugged

country pierced by angry rivers and dotted by lakes, but a gasolene

launch brought up supplies, the tents were large and double-roofed, and

for a few weeks one could play at pioneering without its hardships. The

Vernons were hospitable, the young men and women given to healthy sport,

and Mrs. Cartwright, watching Barbara fish and paddle on the lake,

banished her doubts. For herself she did not miss much; the people were

nice, and the cooking was really good.

When two weeks had gone, Grace and Barbara sat one evening among the

stones by a lake. The evening was calm, the sun was setting, and the

shadow of the pines stretched across the tranquil water. Now and then

the reflections trembled and a languid ripple broke against the

driftwood on the beach. In the distance a loon called, but when its wild

cry died away all was very quiet.

Grace looked across the lake and frowned. She was a tall girl, and

although she had walked for some distance in the woods, her clothes were

hardly crumpled. Her face was finely molded, but rather colorless; her

hands were very white, while Barbara's were brown. Her dress and voice

indicated cultivated taste; but the taste was negative, as if Grace had

banished carefully all that jarred and then had stopped. It was

characteristic that she was tranquil, although she had grounds for

disturbance. They were some distance from camp and it would soon be

dark, but nothing broke the gleaming surface of the lake. The boat that

ought to have met them had not arrived.

"I suppose this is the spot where Harry Vernon agreed to land and take

us on board?" she said.

"It's like the spot. I understand we must watch out for a point opposite

an island with big trees."

"Watch out?" Grace remarked.

"Watch out is good Canadian," Barbara rejoined. "I'm studying the

language and find it expressive and plain. When our new friends talk you

know what they mean. Besides, I'd better learn their idioms, because I

might stop in Canada if somebody urged me."

Grace gave her a quiet look. Barbara meant to annoy her, or perhaps did

not want to admit she had mistaken the spot. Now Grace came to think

about it, the plan that the young men should meet them and paddle them

down the lake was Barbara's.

"I don't see why we didn't go with Harry and the other, as he

suggested," she said.

"Then, you're rather dull. They didn't really want us; they wanted to

fish. To know when people might be bored is useful."

"But there are a number of bays and islands. They may go somewhere

else," Grace insisted.

"Oh well, it ought to amuse Harry and Winter to look for us, and if

they're annoyed, they deserve some punishment. If they had urged us very

much to go, I would have gone. Anyhow, you needn't bother. There's a

short way back to camp by the old loggers' trail."

Grace said nothing. She thought Barbara's carelessness was forced;

Barbara was sometimes moody. Perhaps she felt Shillito's going more than

she was willing to own. For all that, the fellow was gone, and Barbara

would, no doubt, presently be consoled.

"If mother could see things!" Barbara resumed. "Sometimes one feels one

wants a guide, but all one gets is a ridiculous platitude from her

old-fashioned code. One has puzzles one can't solve by out-of-date

rules. However, since she doesn't see, there's no use in bothering."

"I'm your elder sister, but you don't give me your confidence."

Barbara's mood changed and her laugh was touched by scorn. "You are

worse than mother. She's kind, but can't see; you don't want to see. I'd

sooner trust my step-father. He's a very human old ruffian. I wish I had

a real girl friend, but you tactfully freeze off all the girls I like.

It's strange how many people there are whom virtuous folks don't

approve."

Grace missed the note of appeal in her sister's bitterness. She did not

see the girl as disturbed by doubts and looked in perplexity for a

guiding light. Afterwards, when understanding was too late, Grace partly

understood.

"Mr. Cartwright is not a ruffian." she said coldly.

"I suppose you're taking the proper line, and you'd be rather noble,

only you're not sincere. You don't like Cartwright and know he doesn't

like you. All the same, it's not important. We were talking about

getting home, and since the boys have not come for us we had better

start."

The loon had flown away and nothing broke the surface of the lake; the

shadows had got longer and driven back the light. Thin mist drifted

about the islands, the green glow behind the trunks was fading, and it

would soon be dark.

"In winter, the big timber wolves prowl about the woods," Barbara

remarked. "Horrible, savage brutes! I expect you saw the heads at the

packer's house. Still, one understands they stay North until the frost

begins."

She got up, and when they set off Grace looked regretfully across the

lake, for she would sooner have gone home on board the fishing bateau.

She was puzzled. The bays on the lake were numerous, and islands dotted

the winding reaches, but it was strange the young men had gone to the

wrong spot. They knew the lake and had told Barbara where to meet them.

In the meantime, however, the important thing was to get home.

Darkness crept across the woods, and as she stumbled along the uneven

trail Grace got disturbed. She felt the daunting loneliness, the quiet

jarred her nerve. The pines looked ghostly in the gloom. They were

ragged and strangely stiff, it looked as if their branches never moved,

and the dark gaps between the trunks were somehow forbidding.

Grace did not like Canada. Her cultivation was artificial, but Canada

was primitive and stern. In the towns, one found inventions that

lightened labor, and brought to the reach of all a physical comfort that

in England only the rich enjoyed, but the contrasts were sharp. One left

one's hotel, with its very modern furniture, noisy elevators and

telephones, and plunged into the wilderness where all was as it had been

from the beginning. Grace shrank from primitive rudeness and hated

adventure. Living by rule she distrusted all she did not know. She

thought it strange that Barbara, who feared nothing, let her go in

front.

They came to a pool. All round, the black tops of the pines cut the sky;

the water was dark and sullen in the gloom. The trail followed its edge

and when a loon's wild cry rang across the woods Grace stopped. She knew

the cry of the lonely bird that haunts the Canadian wilds, but it had a

strange note, like mocking laughter. Grace disliked the loon when its

voice first disturbed her sleep at the fishing camp; she hated it

afterwards.

"Go on!" said Barbara sharply.

For a moment or two Grace stood still. She did not want to stop, but

something in Barbara's voice indicated strain. If Barbara were startled,

it was strange. Then, not far off, a branch cracked and the pine-spray

rustled as if they were gently pushed aside.

"Oh!" Grace cried, "something is creeping through the bush!"

"Then don't stop," said Barbara. "Perhaps it's a wolf!"

Grace clutched her dress and ran. At first, she thought she heard

Barbara behind, but she owned she had not her sister's pluck and fear

gave her speed. She must get as far as possible from the pool before she

stopped. Besides, she imagined something broke through the undergrowth

near the trail, but her heart beat and she could not hear properly.

At length her breath got labored and she was forced to stop. All was

quiet and the quiet was daunting. Barbara was not about and when Grace

called did not reply. Grace tried to brace herself. Perhaps she ought to

go back, but she could not; she shrank from the terror that haunted the

dark. Then she began to argue that to go back was illogical. If Barbara

had lost her way, she could not help. It was better to push on to the

camp and send men who knew the woods to look for her sister. She set

off, and presently saw with keen relief the light of a fire reflected on

calm water.

CHAPTER III

BARBARA VANISHES

Grace's arrival was greeted by a shout, and when she stopped in front of

the dining-tent a group of curious people surrounded her. The double

roof of the big tent was extended horizontally, and a lamp hanging from

a pole gave a brilliant light. Grace would sooner the light had been

dim, for she was hot and her clothes were torn and wet with dew.

Besides, she must tell her tale and admit that she had not played a

heroic part.

"Where's Barbara?" Mrs. Cartwright asked.

"I don't know. Harry Vernon did not meet us and we started home by the

loggers' trail. I lost Barbara by the pool. Something in the bush tried

to creep up to us; a wolf, I think--"

"Oh, shucks!" remarked a frank Winnipeg girl who did not like Miss

Hyslop. "In summer, you can't find a wolf south of Broken Range. Looks

as if you were scared for nothing, but I can't see why Barbara didn't

beat you at hitting up the pace."

Others asked questions, and when Grace got breath she tried to satisfy

their curiosity. Some of the group looked thoughtful and Mrs. Vernon

said:

"Nothing can have hurt Barbara, and if she has lost her way, she cannot

wander far, because she must be in the loop between the river and the

lake. But Harry did go to meet you, and when he found you had not come

back went off again with Bob. I expect they'll soon arrive with

Barbara."

They waited for half-an-hour, and then, when the splash of paddles stole

out of the dark, ran down to the beach. Presently a double-ended bateau

crossed the beam of light and grounded. A young man helped Barbara out

and gave her his arm.

"You mustn't bother, Harry. I can walk all right," she said.

"Get hold," said Vernon. "You're not going to walk. If you're obstinate,

I'll carry you."

Barbara leaned upon his arm, but her color was high and her look

strained when he helped her across the stones. Harry Vernon was a tall,

thin, wiry Canadian, with a quiet face. When he got to the tent he

opened the curtain, and beckoning Mrs. Cartwright, pushed Barbara

inside.

"You'll give her some supper, ma'am, and I'll chase the others off," he

said. "The little girl's tired and mustn't be disturbed."

Barbara gave him a grateful look and the blood came to his sunburned

skin.

"I am a little tired," she declared, and added, too quietly for Mrs.

Cartwright to hear: "You're a white man."

Vernon pulled the curtain across, and joining the others, lighted a

cigarette.

"The girls stopped at False Point, two miles short of the spot we

fixed," he said. "I reckon Bob's directions were not plain enough. Since

we didn't come along, they started back by the loggers' trail, while we

went to look for them by the other track. At the pool, they thought they

heard a wolf. That's so, Miss Hyslop?"

"Yes," said Grace. "I ran away and thought I heard Barbara following.

But what happened afterwards?"

"She fell. Hurt her foot, had to stop, and then couldn't make good time.

We found her limping along, and shoved through the bush for the river,

so she needn't walk. Well, I think that's all."

It was plausible, but Grace was not altogether satisfied. Moreover, she

imagined Vernon was not, and noted that Mrs. Vernon gave him a

thoughtful glance. All the same, there was nothing to be said, and she

went to her tent.

At daybreak Vernon left the camp, and when he reached the pool walked

round its edge and then sat down and lighted his pipe. A few yards in

front, a number of faint marks were printed on a belt of sand. By and by

he heard steps, and frowned when Winter came out from an opening in the

row of trunks. They were friends, and Bob was a very good sort, but

Vernon would sooner he had stopped away.

"Hallo!" he said. "Why have you come along?"

"I lost my hunting-knife," Winter replied. "It was hooked to my belt and

I thought the clip let go when we helped Miss Hyslop over the big log. A

bully knife; I wanted to find the thing." He paused and smiled when he

resumed: "I reckon you pulled out of camp to meditate?"

Vernon hesitated. Had Winter stopped a few yards off, he would have

begun some banter and drawn him away from the pool. Bob was a woodsman

and his eyes were keen. The sun was, however, rising behind the pines

and a beam of light touched the sand. There was no use in trying to hide

the marks. In fact, Vernon imagined Bob had seen them.

"No," he said. "I thought I'd try to trail the wolf Miss Hyslop talked

about."

"Looks as if you'd found some tracks," Winter remarked. "Well, they're

not a wolf's." He sat down opposite Vernon. "A man's! I saw another at a

soft spot. He followed the girls from the lake and stopped for some

time. I allow I reckoned on something like that."

Vernon made an experiment. "Might have been a packer going to a logging

camp, or perhaps an Indian."

"Shucks!" said Winter, although he gave Vernon a sympathetic smile.

"There are no Indians about the lake and packers' boots don't make marks

like those. A city boot and a city man! A fellow who's wise to the bush

lifts his feet. Anyhow, I reckon he doesn't belong to your crowd."

"A sure thing!" Vernon agreed. "I can fix where all the boys were.

Besides, if somebody in our lot had wanted to talk to Miss Hyslop, he

wouldn't have hung around in the woods. My mother's pretty fastidious

about her guests. Well, I'll own up the thing bothers me."

Winter nodded. Harry was frank and honest, and Bob imagined he had felt

Barbara Hyslop's charm. He was sorry for Harry. The thing was awkward.

"What are you going to do about it?" he asked.

"To begin with, I'm going to hide these tracks. After all, I don't see

much light. I suppose I ought to tell my mother and put Mrs. Cartwright

wise; but I won't. Spying on a girl and telling is mean. All the same,

I'm surely bothered. In a sense, my mother's accountable for her guests

and the girl's nice. I'd like it if I could talk to the man."

"Nothing doing there; he'll watch out. Well, we'll hide up his tracks

and look for my knife. D'you think Grace Hyslop knew the job was put

up?"

"I don't," said Vernon dryly. "I reckon she was puzzled, but that's all.

You couldn't persuade Miss Hyslop her sister liked adventures in the

dark. Anyhow, the thing's done with. We have got to let it go."

They went off and Winter pondered. Harry had got something of a knock.

Perhaps he was taking the proper line; anyhow, it was the line Harry

would take, but Bob doubted. The girl was very young and the man who met

her in the dark was obviously a wastrel.

When they returned for breakfast Barbara had joined the others and wore

soft Indian moccasins. Bob looked at Harry and understood his frown.

Harry had played up when he helped her home, but he, no doubt, thought

the game ought to stop. Bob wondered whether Barbara knew, because she

turned her head when Harry advanced.

After breakfast, Mrs. Vernon, carrying a small bottle, joined Mrs.

Cartwright's party under the pines outside the tent. The dew was drying

and the water shone like a mirror, but it was cool in the shade. Barbara

occupied a camp-chair and rested her foot on a stone, Mrs. Cartwright

knitted, and Grace studied a philosophical book. Her rule was to

cultivate her mind for a fixed time every day. Harry Vernon strolled up

to the group and Mrs. Cartwright put down her knitting.

"You're kind, but the child's obstinate and won't let me see her foot,"

she said to Mrs. Vernon.

"It's comfortable now," Barbara remarked. "When something that hurt you

stops hurting I think it's better to leave it alone. Besides, one

doesn't want to bother people."

"You won't bother me, and I'll fix your foot in two or three minutes so

it won't hurt again," Mrs. Vernon declared. "The elixir's famous and I

haven't known it to miss. I always carry some when we camp in the

woods." She turned to her son. "Tell Barbara how soon I cured you when

you hurt your arm."

"You want to burn Miss Hyslop with the elixir?"

"It doesn't burn much. You said you hardly felt it, and soon after I

rubbed your arm the pain was gone."

Harry glanced at Barbara and saw she was embarrassed, although her mouth

was firm. Since she did not mean to let Mrs. Vernon examine her

supposititious injury, his business was to help, and he laughed.

"Miss Hyslop's skin is not like my tough hide. You certainly fixed my

arm, but it was a drastic cure, and I think Miss Hyslop ought to refuse.

I try to indulge you, like a dutiful son, but you are not her mother."

"I am her mother and she will not indulge me," Mrs. Cartwright remarked

with languid grievance, and Barbara gave Harry a quick, searching

glance. His face was inscrutable, but she wondered how much he knew. She

felt shabby and ashamed.

When Mrs. Vernon went off with the elixir, Harry sat down.

"If you could bring Mr. Cartwright out, I might persuade my father to

come along," he said. "The old man likes Cartwright; declares he's a

sport."

"He is a ship-owner." Grace remarked. "I think he used to shoot, but

it's some time since."

Harry looked at Barbara and his eyes twinkled. "American English isn't

Oxford English, but your people are beginning to use it and Miss Barbara

learns fast. All the same, running the Independent Freighters is quite a

sporting proposition, and I imagine Mr. Cartwright generally makes good.

The old man and I would back him to put over an awkward deal every

time."

"My husband is a good business man," Mrs. Cartwright agreed. "But you

belong to Winnipeg and I understand his business is at Montreal."

"The steamship _Conference_ understood something like that, until

Cartwright put them wise. You see, we Western people grow the wheat that

goes down the lakes, and when the _Conference_ got to know an

Independent boat was coming out they went round and offered Montreal

shippers and brokers a drawback on the rates. That is, if the shippers

gave them all their stuff, they'd meet their bills for a rebate some

time afterwards. Bully for the shippers, but it left the Western men,

who raised the wheat, in the cold. Well, while the _Conference_ got

after him at Montreal, Cartwright came West and booked all the grain he

could load before it started off. When the _Conference_ got wise, the

cargo was in the Independent freighter's hold. Cartwright's surely a

business man."

Barbara laughed and Mrs. Cartwright languidly agreed, but Grace frowned.

Although she did not approve Cartwright, he was the head of her house,

and to know his clever tricks were something of a joke hurt her dignity.

Harry saw her frown.

"Anyhow, Cartwright's promise stands," he resumed. "If he ran his boat

across half empty, he'd make good. You can trust him."

He went off and Barbara mused unhappily. She thought Harry had talked to

help her over an awkward moment, and she was grateful but disturbed. It

looked as if he knew something and he might know much. All the same,

when he talked about her step-father she agreed. Cartwright was bold and

clever, and, although he was sometimes not very scrupulous, people did

trust him. Barbara wished she had his cleverness and his talent for

removing obstacles. There were obstacles in her path and the path was

dark. Yet she had promised to take it and must make good. She tried to

banish her doubts and began to talk.

After lunch she allowed one of the party to help her on board a canoe.

The afternoon was calm, and the light breeze that now and then sighed in

the pine-tops hardly ruffled the shining water. In the evening, when the

straight trunks cut against a blaze of gold and green, they sat by a

smudge fire that kept off the mosquitoes and sang to an accompaniment of

banjos and mandolins. Barbara sang with the others, but it cost her an

effort. The tranquil day was nearly done and she felt it was the last

tranquillity she might know for long. Her companions were frank and

kind, Canadians, but her sort, and she was going to make a bold plunge

with another who was not. Yet she knew one could not rebel for nothing,

and she had pluck. The light faded behind the trees, a loon's wild cry

rang across the dark water, and the party went to bed.

In the morning Grace awoke Mrs. Cartwright quietly.

"Barbara is gone," she said.

"Ridiculous!" said Mrs. Cartwright.

"She is gone. Her clothes are not about; but we must be calm and not

disturb the camp. Mrs. Vernon ought to know, but nobody else. You see,

it's important--"

Mrs. Cartwright saw, and a few minutes afterwards her hostess knew.

"It's plain I must give Harry my confidence, to some extent," Mrs.

Vernon said, and went to look for her son.

She found him going off for a swim, and when she told her tale he

frowned.

"In a way, perhaps, I'm accountable, but we'll talk about this again,"

he said. "Get Mrs. Cartwright on board the launch and come along

yourself. As soon as Bob's inside his clothes we'll start."

"But Bob--" Mrs. Vernon began.

"Bob _knows_, and I'll need a partner. If Miss Hyslop didn't leave the

settlement on the night express, she'll be hitting the trail through the

woods for the United States. You must hustle."

Mrs. Vernon left him, and a few minutes afterwards the fast motor launch

swung out from the landing and sped down river with a white wave at her

bows. Grace watched the boat vanish behind a wooded point and then went

to her tent. She was horribly angry and shocked. Barbara had cheated her

and disgraced them all.

CHAPTER IV

THE GIRL ON THE PLATFORM

The Vancouver express was running in the dark through the woods west of

Fort William. After the rain of early summer, wash-outs that undermine

the track are numerous and the express had been delayed. Now, however,

the road was good and the engineer drove his big locomotive with

throttle wide open. Black smoke blew about the rocking cars, cinders

rattled on the roofs, and showers of sparks sped past the windows. The

wheels roared on shaking trestles and now and then awoke an echoing

clang of steel, for the company was doubling the track and replacing the

wooden bridges by metal.

This was George Lister's business, and he lounged in a corner of a

smoking-compartment, and rather drowsily studied some calculations. He

was bound West from Montreal, and in the morning would resume his labors

at a construction camp. There was much to be done and the construction

bosses who had sent for him were getting impatient.

Lister's thoughts wandered from the figures. He liked his occupation and

admitted that he had been lucky, but began to see he had gone as far as

he could expect to go. The trouble was, he had not enjoyed the

scientific training that distinguished the men who got important posts.

His mechanical career began in the engine-room of a wheat-boat on the

lakes, and he had entered the railroad company's service when shipping

was bad and steamers were laid up. Although he had studied for a term or

two at McGill University, he knew his drawbacks. Sometimes promotion was

given for merit, but for the most part the men who made progress came

from technical colleges and famous engineering works.

An accident in the ranges on the Pacific slope, when a mountain

locomotive jumped the track and plunged down a precipitous hillside,

gave Lister his first chance. He got the locomotive back to the line,

and being rewarded by a better post, stubbornly pushed himself nearer

the front. Now, however, it looked as if he must stop. Rules were not

often relaxed in favor of men who had no highly-placed friends. Yet

Lister wondered.

Not long since, a gentleman whose word carried some weight at the

company's office had visited the construction camp with his indulged

daughter. The girl was clever, adventurous, and interested by pioneer

work, and Lister had helped her to some thrills she obviously enjoyed.

She had, with his guidance, driven a locomotive across a shaking,

half-braced bridge, fired a heavy blasting shot, and caught big gray

trout from his canoe. Although Lister used some reserve, their

friendship ripened, and when she left she hinted she had some power she

might be willing to use on his behalf.

All the same, Lister was proud. The girl belonged to a circle he could

not enter, and if he got promotion, it must be by his merits. He was not

the man to get forward by intrigue and the clever use of a woman's

influence; he had no talent for that kind of thing. He let it go, and

tried to concentrate on his calculations.

By and by the colored porter stopped to tell him his berth was fixed and

the passengers were going to bed. Lister nodded, put up his papers, and

then lighted a cigarette. The smoking-compartment was hot, the light the

rocking lamp threw about had hurt his eyes, and he thought he would go

out on the platform for a few minutes.

He went. The draught that swept the gap between the cars was bracing and

cool. There was a moon, he saw water shine and dark pines stream past.

The snorting of the locomotive broke in a measured beat through the roll

of wheels; the rocks threw back confused echoes about the clanging cars.

Then the gleam among the trees got wider and Lister knew they were

nearing a trestle that crossed an arm of a lake. In fact, he had

wondered whether he would be sent to pull down the bridge and rebuild it

with steel.

He sat down on the little box-seat, with his back against the door. The

platform had not the new guards the company was then fitting; there was

an opening in the rails, and one could go down the steps when the train

was running. The moonlight touched the back of the car in front, but

Lister was in the gloom, and when the vestibule door opposite opened he

was annoyed. If somebody wanted to go through the train, he must get up.

A girl came out of the other car and seizing the rails looked down. She

was in the light, and Lister remarked that she did not wear traveling

clothes; he thought her small, knitted cap, short dress, and loose

jacket indicated that she had come from a summer camp. Then she turned

her head and he saw her face was rather white and her look was strained.

It was obvious that something had disturbed her.

The girl did not see him, and while he wondered whether he ought to get

up she put her foot on the step and leaned out, as if she weighed the

possibility of jumping off. She swung back when the cars lurched round a

curve, and the measured roll of wheels changed to a sharp, broken din.

The train was running on to the trestle and Lister saw the water shine

below the platform. He got up, and moving quietly, seized the girl's arm

and pulled her from the rails.

"A jolt might throw you off," he said.

She looked up with a start and the blood came to her skin, but she gave

him a quick, searching glance. Lister was athletic, his face was bronzed

by frost and sun, and his look was frank. She lowered her eyes and her

color faded.

"Does the train stop soon?" she asked.

"If the engineer's lucky, we won't stop until he makes the next

water-tank, and it's some distance."

She turned with a quick, nervous movement and glanced at the door.

Lister imagined she was afraid somebody might come out.

"Could one persuade or bribe the conductor to pull up?"

Lister hesitated. He knew the train gang and was a railroad boss, but

the company was spending a large sum in order to cut down the

time-schedule and somebody must account for all delay.

"I think not. You see, unless there's a washout or the track is blocked,

nothing is allowed to stop the Vancouver express."

The girl glanced at the door again and then gave him an appealing look.

"But I must get off! I oughtn't to have come on board. I want to go

East, towards Montreal, and not to Winnipeg."

Although he was not romantic, Lister was moved. She was very young and

her distress was obvious. Somehow he felt her grounds for wanting to

leave the train were good. Indeed, he rather thought she had meant to

jump off had they not run on to the bridge. Yet for him to stop the

express would be ridiculous; the conductor and engineer would pay for

his meddling. With quiet firmness he pulled the girl farther from the

opening of the rails.

"We stop long before we get to Winnipeg," he said soothingly. "Then it's

possible we'll be held up by a blocked track. Wash-outs are pretty

numerous on this piece of line. However, if we do stop and you get down,

you'll be left in the woods."

"Oh!" she said, "that's not important! All I want is to get off."

"Very well," said Lister. "If we are held up, I'll look for you. But I

don't know if the jolting platform is very safe. Hadn't you better go

back to your car?"

She gave him a quick glance and he thought she braced herself.

"I'm not going back. I can't. It's impossible!"

Lister was curious, but hesitated about trying to satisfy his curiosity.

The girl was afraid of somebody, and, seeing no other help, she trusted

him.

"Then, you had better come with me and I'll find you a berth where you

won't be disturbed," he said.

She followed him with a confidence he thought moving, and when they met

the conductor he took the man aside.

"That's all right," said the other. "Nobody's going to bother her while

I'm about."

Lister returned to the smoking-compartment, but the adventure had given

him a pleasant thrill and he did not feel sleepy. He got out his

calculations and tried to interest himself until a man entered the car.

The fellow was rather handsome and his clothes were good, but Lister

thought he looked perplexed. He gave Lister a keen glance and went on

through the car. Some minutes afterwards, he came back, frowning

savagely, stopped in front of Lister, as if he meant to speak,

hesitated, and went out by the vestibule.

It was plain the fellow had gone to look for the girl and had not found

her. The conductor had seen to that. Lister smiled, but admitted that

the thing was puzzling. The man was older than the girl, although he was

not old enough to be her father. If he were her husband, she would not

have run away from him, and it did not look as if he were her lover.

Lister saw no light, but since it was obvious she feared the man he

resolved, if possible, to help her to escape.

Some time afterwards, the whistle pierced the roll of wheels, and

Lister, going to the platform, saw a big electric head-lamp shine like a

star. The cars were slowing and he imagined the operator had tried to

run a construction train across the section before the express came up.

They would probably stop for a minute at the intersection of the main

and side tracks. Hurrying through the train, Lister found the conductor,

who look him to a curtained berth, and the girl got down. She was

dressed and wore her knitted cap.

"If you are resolved to go, I may be able to help you off," Lister said.

"I must go," she replied, and although Lister remarked that her hands

trembled as she smoothed her crumpled dress, her voice was steady.

"Very well," he said. "Come along."

When he opened the vestibule door the train was stopping and the beam

from a standing locomotive's head-lamp flooded the track with dazzling

light. For a moment the girl hesitated, but when Lister went down the

steps she gave him her hand and jumped. Lister felt her tremble and was

himself conscious of some excitement. He did not know if he was rash or

not, but since she meant to go, speed was important, because the man

from whom she wanted to escape might see them on the line. He went to

the waiting engine in front of a long row of ballast cars, on which a

big gravel plough loomed faintly in the dark.

"Who's on board?" he asked.

A man he knew looked out from the cab window.

"Hallo, Mr. Lister! I'm on board with Jake. We're going to Malcolm cut

for gravel. Washout's mixed things; operator reckoned he could rush us

through--"

"Then you'll stop and get water at the tank," Lister interrupted. "Will

you make it before the East-bound comes along?"

"We ought to make it half-an-hour ahead. Wires all right that way.

Nothing's on the road."

Lister turned to the girl. "If you're going East you must buy a new

ticket at Malcolm. Have you money?"

"I have some--" she said and stopped, and Lister imagined she had not

until then thought about money and had not much.

"You'll take this lady to Malcolm, Roberts, and put her down where she

can get to the station," he said to the engineer. "Nobody will see you

have a passenger, but if the agent's curious, I'll fix the thing with

him."

It was breaking rules, but the man knew Lister, and Lister knew he could

be trusted. He took some bills from his wallet, and as he helped the

girl up the steps pushed the paper into her hand.

She turned to the cab door, and Lister imagined she was hardly conscious

of the money he had given her. Her color was high but her look indicated

keen relief.

"Oh!" she said, "I owe you much! You don't know all you have done. I

will not forget--"

Somebody waved a lantern, a whistle shrieked, and the locomotive bell

began to toll. Lister jumped back and seized the rails above the

platform steps as the car lurched forward. They moved faster, the beam

of the head-lamp faded, and the train rolled on into the dark.

CHAPTER V

SHILLITO GETS AWAY

When the train started Lister did not go to his berth. His curiosity was

excited and he wondered whether he had been rash. Now he came to think

about it, the girl was attractive, and perhaps this to some extent

accounted for his willingness to help. Moreover she was young, and it

was possible her relations had put her in the man's control. If so, his

meddling could not be justified.

After a time he heard the whistle, and imagined the train was going to

stop at a small station to which mails were brought from some mining

camps. The neighboring country was rugged and lonely, but a trail ran

south through the woods to the American frontier. When the cars stopped

he pushed down the window and looked out.

Small trees grew along the track and the light from the cars touched

their branches. The line was checkered by illuminated patches and belts

of gloom. Lister heard somebody open the baggage car and then saw a man

run along the line beside the train. Another jumped off a platform and

they met not far from Lister's window. The man who got down was the

fellow who had gone through the car looking for the girl. The locomotive

pump throbbed noisily and Lister could not hear their talk, but he

thought they argued.

The one who came up the line looked impatient and put his hand on his

companion's arm, as if to urge him away. The other stepped back, and his

gesture implied that he refused to go. The train was long, the

passengers were asleep, and the men, no doubt, imagined nobody saw them.

Lister thought the fellow who got down did not know the girl was gone

and did not mean to leave the train without her. The light touched the

men's faces, and it was obvious that one was angry and the other

disturbed. The scene intrigued Lister. It was like watching an act in a

cinema play of which one did not know the plot.

After a minute or two a lantern flashed up the track, the bell tolled,

and the nearer man jumped back on the step. Lister heard a vestibule

door shut and then the throb of wheels began. The fellow on the line

frowned and threw out his hands angrily. From the movement of his lips

Lister thought he swore, but the car rolled past him and he melted into

the dark.

Lister went to his berth, but did not undress. Much of the night had

gone, he would reach his camp soon after daybreak, and the train would

only stop long enough for him to jump off. He could sleep in his clothes

for an hour or two. A slackening of the roll of wheels wakened him and

he got out of his berth, but the big lamps were burning and when he went

to the door he saw dawn had not come. It was obvious they had not

reached the construction camp. Lister shivered, and was returning to his

berth when the conductor opened the door.

"Our luck's surely not good to-night," he said. "They're pulling us up

at Maple. If it's not a washout, somebody will get fired."

He went off, grumbling, but when the train stopped came back with a

trooper of the North-West Mounted Police.

"Where's the guy you told me to watch out for?" he asked.

Lister said he did not know and offered to go with them and help find

the man. It looked as if he were going to see the end of the play.

When they opened a vestibule door a man came out of the car in front and

stopped, as if he were dazzled by the beam from the conductor's lifted

lamp.

"That's the fellow," Lister shouted.

He thought the other saw the trooper's uniform, because he stepped back

quickly. The door, however, was shut. When he let go the handle the

spring-bolt had engaged.

"Nothing doing that way!" said the trooper. "My partner's coming along

behind you; you're corraled all right. I've a warrant for you, Louis

Shillito."

The North-West Police work in couples and the situation was plain. One

trooper had begun his search at the front of the train, the other at the

back, and Shillito, hearing the first turn the passengers out of their

berths, had tried to steal away and met the other. His face got

strangely white, but Lister thought it was rather with rage than fear.

His lips drew back in a snarl, and the veins swelled on his forehead. He

occupied the center of the illuminated circle thrown by the conductor's

lamp, and his savage gaze was fixed. Lister saw he was not looking at

the policeman but at him.

"Blast you!" Shillito shouted. "If you hadn't butted in--"

"Cut it out!" said the trooper. "Hands up; we've got you! Don't make

trouble."

Shillito's hand went behind him. It was possible he felt for the door

knob, but the trooper meant to run no risks. Although he had put down

his rifle and taken out his handcuffs, he jumped forward, across the

platform, and Shillito bent sideways to avoid his spring. The fellow was

athletic and his quick side-movement indicated he was something of a

boxer; the policeman was embarrassed by his handcuffs and young.

Shillito seized him and threw him against the rails, close to the gap

where the steps went down. The trooper gasped, his grasp got slack, and

his body slipped along the rails. It looked as if Shillito would throw

him down the steps, and Lister jumped.

He saw Shillito's hand go up and next moment got a heavy blow. For all

that, he seized the man and held on, though blood ran into his eyes and

he felt dizzy. Shillito struggled like a savage animal and Lister

imagined the trooper did not help much. He got his arms round his

antagonist and tried to pull him down; Shillito was trying to reach the

opening in the rails. After a moment or two, Lister felt his muscles

getting slack, lurched forward, and saw nothing in front. He plunged out

from the gap, struck a step with his foot, and somebody fell on him.

Then he thought he heard a rifle-shot, and knew nothing more.

By and by somebody pulled him to his feet and he saw the conductor

holding his arm. A group of excited passengers stood round them in the

light that shone from the train and some others ran along the edge of

the woods. The trooper and Shillito were gone.

Lister's head hurt, he felt shaky, and when he wiped his face his hand

was wet with blood.

"My head's cut. S'pose I hit something when I fell," he said.

"Shillito socked it to you pretty good," the conductor replied, and

waved his lamp. "All aboard!" he shouted, and pushed Lister up the

steps.

When they reached the platform the car jolted and Lister sat down, with

his back against the door.

"My legs won't hold me," he said in an apologetic voice. "Did Shillito

get off?"

"Knocked out the trooper and made the bush; the other fellow was way

back along the train," the conductor replied. "They want him for

embezzlement and will soon get on his trail, but the wash-out's broke

the wires and I reckon he'll cross the frontier ahead. Now you come

along and I'll try to fix your cut."

Lister went, and soon after a porter helped him into his berth. His head

hurt and he felt very dull and slack, but he slept and when he woke

bright sunshine streamed into the standing car and he saw the train had

stopped at Winnipeg. Soon afterwards the conductor and one of the

station officials put him into an automobile.

"If the reporters get after you, remember you're not to talk about the

girl," he said to the conductor.

The other nodded, and signed the driver to start. The car rolled off and

stopped at the house of a doctor who dressed the cut on Lister's head

and ordered him a week's rest. Lister went to a hotel, and in the

morning found a romantic narrative of Shillito's escape in the

newspaper, but was relieved to note that nothing was said about the

girl. The report, however, stated that a passenger who tried to help the

police had got badly hurt and Shillito had vanished in the woods. The

police had not found his trail and it was possible he would reach the

American frontier.

Lister thought the thing was done with, and when a letter arrived from

the construction office, telling him to stay until he felt able to

resume his work, resigned himself to rather dreary idleness. For some

days his head ached and he could not go out; the other guests were

engaged in the city and there was nobody to whom he could talk. He got

badly bored, and it was a relief when one afternoon the gentleman he had

met at the construction camp arrived with his daughter. For all that,

Lister was surprised. Duveen was a man of some importance, Miss Duveen

was a fashionable young lady, and Lister had imagined they had forgotten

him. He took his guests to a corner of the spacious rotunda where a

throbbing electric fan blew away the flies, and Duveen gave him a

cigarette.

"The _Record_ did not give your name, but we soon found out who was the

plucky passenger," he said with a friendly smile. "Ruth thought she'd

like to see you, and since I wasn't engaged this afternoon we came

along."

"I did want to come, but I really think you proposed the visit," Ruth

remarked.

"Oh, well," said Duveen, "I don't know if it's important, but perhaps we

oughtn't to make Mr. Lister talk."

Lister declared he wanted to talk, and Duveen said presently, "I don't

see why you butted in."

For a moment or two Lister hesitated. He was resolved to say nothing

about the girl; it was obvious she would not like her adventure known,

but he must be cautious. Duveen was clever, and he thought Miss Duveen

gave him a curious glance.

"The trooper was young and I sympathized with his keenness. Looked as if

it was his first important job and he meant to make good."

"A romantic impulse?" Duveen remarked, and laughed. "Well, when one is

young, I expect it's hard to stand off while a fight's going on. All the

same, it's strange you didn't sympathize with the fellow who was

corraled. That's youth's natural instinct, although I allow it's not

often justified."

"The trooper was corraled. He'd put down his rifle and Shillito had a

gun; I reckon it was the sharp butt of a heavy automatic that cut my

head. Then I didn't like the fellow; he'd come through the train before

and looked a smart crook."

"He is a crook and got away with a big wad of the lumber firm's money.

However, you were rash to jump for a man with a pistol. You didn't know

he'd use the butt. All the same, you look brighter than we thought and

can take a rest. I expect the construction office won't rush you back

until you're fit."

"I want to get back. Loafing round the hotel is dreary and my job's not

getting on. Although I'm ordered to lie off, this won't count for much.

I'll be made accountable for getting behind."

Duveen said nothing for a moment or two, but he looked thoughtful, and

Lister imagined Miss Duveen studied him quietly. He did not belong to

the Duveens' circle; he was ruder. In fact, it was rather strange to see

these people sitting with him, engaged in friendly talk, although, now

he thought about it, Miss Duveen had not said much.

She was a pretty girl and Lister liked her fashionable dress. Somehow

Ruth Duveen harmonized with the tall pillars and rich ornamentation of

the rotunda. One felt she belonged to spacious rooms. Duveen's clothes

were in quiet taste, he wore a big diamond, and looked commanding. One

felt this was a man whose word carried weight.

"You're something of a hustler," he remarked with a smile. "For all

that, you got a nasty knock, and your quitting for a time is justified.

Well, if you feel lonesome, come along and dine at our hotel. Then we'll

go and see the American opera. I'm told the show is good."

Lister made some excuses, but Duveen would not be refused.

"When we stopped at your camp you made things smooth for us. You gave

Ruth some thrills, showed her the romance of track-grading, and

generally helped her to a good time. Anyhow, the thing is fixed. We'll

send the car for you."

They went off soon afterwards, and Lister mused and smoked. He had

hardly expected to meet the Duveens again and wondered whether he owed

the visit to Ruth or her father; he had remarked at the camp that she

was generally indulged. Well, it was plain Duveen could help him and

Lister was ambitious, but he frowned and pulled himself up. He was not

going to intrigue for promotion and use a girl's friendship in order to

force his chiefs to see his merits. Things like that were done, but not

by him; it demanded qualities he did not think were his. Moreover he did

not know if Ruth Duveen was his friend. She was attractive, but he

imagined she was clever. All the same, if he could get the doctor to fix

his bandage so as to make it inconspicuous he would dine with the

Duveens.

CHAPTER VI

WINNIPEG BEACH

Lister went to the opera with his hosts and was moved by the music and

the feeling that he was one of a careless, pleasure-seeking crowd. For

the most part, his life had been strenuous and the crowds he knew were

rude. His home was a bare shack, sometimes built on the wind-swept

alkali plains, and sometimes in the tangled woods. From daybreak until

dusk fell, hoarse shouts, the clank of rails, the beat of heavy hammers

filled his ears, and often the uproar did not stop at dark. When a soft

muskeg swallowed the new track, he must watch, by the flaring

blast-lamps, noisy ploughs throw showers of gravel from the ballast

cars.

Labor and concentration had left their mark. Lister's muscles were hard,

but his body and face were thin. He looked fine-drawn and alert; his

talk was direct and quick. As a rule, his skin was brown, but now the

brown was gone, and the lines on his face were deeper. His injury

accounted for something and he felt the reaction from a strain he had

hardly noted while it must be borne. Although he had not altogether

hidden his bandage and his clothes were not the latest fashion, Ruth

Duveen was satisfied. Somehow he looked a finer type than the business

men in the neighboring stalls. One felt the man's clean virility and got

a hint of force.

Lister was highly strung. The music stirred his imagination, and when

the curtain went down the light and glitter, the perfume that drifted

about, the women's dress, and the society of his attractive companion

gave him a curious thrill. He began to see he had missed much; ambitions

that had forced him to struggle for scope to use fresh efforts took

another turn. Life was not all labor. Ruth Duveen had enlightened him.

He studied her. She had grace and charm; it was much to enjoy, for one

evening, the society of a girl like this. Duveen went off between the

acts to meet his friends, but Ruth stopped and talked. Her smile was

gracious and Lister let himself go. He told her about adventures on the

track and asked about her life in the cities. Perhaps it was strange,

but she did not look bored, and when the curtain went down for the last

time he felt a pang. The evening was gone and in a day or two he must

resume his labor in the wilds. Lister did not cheat himself; he knew the

strange, romantic excitement he had indulged would not be his again.

When they went down the passage Ruth gave him a smiling glance and saw

his mouth was firm.

"You look rather tired," she said. "Have we tired you?"

Lister turned and his eyes were thoughtful. She had stopped to fasten

her cloak, and the people pushing by forced her to his side. An electric

lamp burned overhead and her beauty moved him. He noted the heavy coils

of her dark hair, her delicate color, and the grace of her form.

"I'm not at all tired," he said. "I feel remarkably braced and keen, as

if I'd waked up from sleep. In fact, I think I have awakened."

Ruth laughed. She saw he was not smiling and his graveness gave her a

sense of power. He had owned, with typical frankness, that she had moved

him.

"Sometimes to wake up suddenly gives one a jolt," she said. "However,

you will soon get calm again in the woods."

He sensed something provocative and challenging in her voice, but he

would not play up.

"I wonder--" he said quietly. "In a way, the proper line's to go to

sleep again."

"Sometimes one dreams! I expect you dream about locomotives breaking

through trestles and dump-cars plunging into muskegs?"

He laughed. "They're things I know, and safe to dream about. All the

same, I rather expect I'll be haunted by lights and music, pretty

dresses and faces--"

He stopped, and Ruth remarked: "If these have charm, there are no very

obvious grounds for your going without. You can command a locomotive and

Winnipeg's not very far from your camp. But we're stopping the people,

and I can't fix this clasp."

She moved, and the opera cloak fell back from her arm, which was

uncovered but for the filmy sleeve that reached a little below the

shoulder. He noted its fine curves and the silky smoothness of her skin.

Although he fastened the clasp with a workman's firm touch, he thrilled.

Then the crowd forced them on and they found Duveen waiting by the car.

When they stopped at Lister's hotel Ruth said, "We are going to Winnipeg

Beach, Saturday. Would you like to come?"

Duveen nodded. "A happy thought! I've got to talk to some business

people who make Ruth tired. If you come along, I needn't bother about

her."

"That's how one's father argues!" Ruth exclaimed.

Lister hesitated. "I was told to lie off because I was hurt. If I'm fit

to enjoy an excursion, I'm fit to work."

"You're too scrupulous, young man. Have a good time when it's possible,

or you'll be sorry afterwards. I reckon you're justified to take all the

company will give."

"It was caution, not scruples. Suppose I meet one of the railroad

chiefs?"

"I'll fix him," Duveen rejoined. "Your bosses won't get after you when

you belong to my party. Anyhow, we'll look out for you."

The car rolled off, and Lister, going to the rotunda, lighted a

cigarette and mused. Ruth Duveen had beauty, he liked her but must use

caution, since he imagined the friendship she had given him was

something of an indulged girl's caprice. Then he began to think about

the girl he had met on board the train. Now he was able, undisturbed, to

draw her picture, he saw she, too, had charm, but she was not at all

like Ruth. The strange thing was, one did not note if she were beautiful

or not. In a way, this did not matter; her pluck and firmness fixed

one's interest.

Lister threw away his cigarette. He was poor and not romantic. The girl

he had helped had vanished, and after their excursion he hardly expected

to see Ruth again. Ruth was kind, but she would soon forget him when he

was gone. He would go to Winnipeg Beach with her, and then return to the

woods and let his job absorb him. In the meantime, his head had begun to

ache and he went to bed.

The Saturday morning was typical of Winnipeg in summer. The fresh

northwest breeze that sweeps the Manitoba plains had dropped. Dark

thunder-clouds rolled about the sky, but the sun was hot and an

enervating humidity brooded over the town. The perspiring crowd in Main

Street moved slackly, the saloon bars were full, and the groups of

holiday-makers flocking to the station wore a languid look.

Lister met his hosts in the marble waiting hall where a gold-framed

panorama of Canadian scenery closes the view between the rows of stately

pillars. Duveen had brought three or four keen-eyed, nervous business

men, a rather imposing lady, and Ruth, and they got on board a local

train soon after Lister arrived. Winnipeg Beach was then beginning to

attract holiday-makers from the prairie town. One could row and fish in

sheltered bays, and adventure on board a gasoline launch into the

northern wilds. Boating, however, had no charm for Duveen's friends. The

excursion was an opportunity for friendly business talk, and when lunch

was over Ruth and Lister went out on the lawn in front of the hotel.

There was no wind. A few dark clouds floated motionless overhead, but

outside their shadow the lake shone like glass, running back until it

melted into faint reflections on the horizon. A varnished launch flashed

in the sun and trailed a long white wake across the water.

"Do you want to stay and talk to Mrs. Knapp?" Ruth asked.

"I do not," said Lister. "Anyhow, I imagine Mrs. Knapp doesn't want to

talk to me. I'm not a big-business man."

Ruth laughed. "Oh, well, when you speculate at the Board of Trade, a

railroad engineer is not a useful friend. I suppose I ought to stay, but

the things one ought to do are tiresome. Let's go on the lake."

Lister got a canoe, and fixing a cushion for Ruth, picked up the paddle.

"Where shall we go?"

"North, as far as you can. Let's get away from the boats and trippers

and imagine we're back in the woods where you helped me catch the big

gray trout."

"Then you liked it at the construction camp?" Lister remarked. "It was a

pretty rude spot."

"For an indulged city girl?" Ruth said, smiling. "Well, perhaps I'd got

all the satisfaction dinner parties and dances and the society at hotels

can give. I knew the men who handle finance and work the wires behind

the scenes, but I wanted to know the others who do the strenuous things

and keep the country going. I came, and you helped me to understand the

romance of the lakes and woods."

Lister did not remember if he had tried to do so and thought he had not.

All the same, the girl was keen and interested. In summer, it was not

hard to feel the lonely sheets of water and tangled bush were touched by

romance. Then, perhaps, everybody felt at times a vague longing for the

rude and primitive. But he was not a philosopher, and dipping the

paddle, he drove the canoe across the tranquil lake.

In the meantime, he imagined Ruth studied him with quiet amusement, and

wondered whether she thought he was not playing up. He did not mean to

play up; the game was intricate, and, if he were rash, might cost him

much. He had taken off his hat and jacket and effort had brought back

the color to his skin. His thin face had the clean bronze tint of an

Indian's; the soft shirt showed the fine-drawn lines of his athletic

figure; but Lister was not conscious of this. He knew his drawbacks, but

not all his advantages.

When he had gone some distance and the hotel and houses began to melt

into the background, he stopped and let the canoe drift.

"How far shall we go?" he asked.

Ruth indicated a rocky point, cut off by the glimmering reflection, that

seemed to float above the horizon.

"Let's see what is on the other side. Now and then one wants to know.

Exploration's intriguing. Don't you think so?"

"Sometimes; in a practical sense. When a height of land cuts the

landscape, I wonder whether one could find an easy down-grade for the

track across the summit. That's about as far as my imagination goes."

"Oh, well," said Ruth, "exploration like that is useful and one doesn't

run much risk. But risk and adventure appeal to some people."

Lister resumed paddling. The girl had charm and he was young; if he were

not cautious, there might be some risk for him. He was not a clever

philanderer, and Ruth and Duveen had been kind. By and by a puff of cool

wind touched his hot skin and he looked round. A black cloud had rolled

up and there were lines on the water.

"We may get a blow and some thunder," he remarked. "Shall we go back?"

"Not yet. We'll make the point first. If it does thunder, summer storms

don't last."

He paddled harder and a small white wave lapped the canoe's bows. The

sky was getting dark, and now the lines that streaked the lake were

white, but the wind was astern and they were going fast. The glimmering

reflections had vanished and the rocks ahead rose sharply from the

leaden water. The point was some distance off, but Lister knew he must

reach it soon.

A flash of forked lightning leaped from the sky and touched the lake,

there was a long, rumbling peal, and then a humming noise began astern.

Angry white ripples splashed about the canoe and lumps of hail beat

Lister's head. Then, while the thunder rolled across the sky, the canoe

swerved. It was blowing hard, the high bow and stern caught the wind,

the strength was needed to hold her straight with the single paddle. If

he brought her round, he could not paddle to windward, and to steer

across the sea that would soon get up might be dangerous. They must make

the point and land. He threw Ruth his jacket, for spray had begun to fly

and the drops from the paddle blew on board.

"Put on the thing; I've got to work," he said.

In a few minutes his work was hard. Short, white waves rolled past, the

canoe lurched and swerved, and Lister knew if she swung off across wind

and sea she might capsize. He must keep her running and let the combers

split against her pointed stern. The combers were getting large and

their hissing tops surged by some height above the gunwale, but so long

as he could keep her before them they would not come on board. When her

bows went up she sheered, as if she meant to shoot across the hollow

left by the sea that rolled by. He stopped her with a back-stroke and

then drove hard ahead, for he must have speed to steer when the next sea

came on. In the meantime, the lightning flickered about the lake and

between the flashes all was nearly dark. The tops of the waves tossed

against leaden cloud and he could hardly see the rocks for which he

steered.

By and by, however, the point stood out close ahead. The trees on the

summit bent in the wind; spray leaped about the bowlders where the white

foam rolled. He must go round and find a landing to lee, but to go round

he must cross the belt of breaking water, with the savage wind abeam.

The canoe shipped some water, and riding in on a comber's crest,

narrowly missed a rock that lifted its top for a moment out of the foam.

Then Lister drove her in behind the point and helped Ruth to land on a

gravel beach. Her eyes sparkled and he saw she had not been daunted.

"We're all right now, but we have got to stay until the storm blows

out," he said.

They found shelter in a hollow of the cliff and sat among the driftwood

while the rain that blotted out the lake drove overhead. The deluge did

not reach them and the cold was going.

"You go back on Monday?" Ruth said at length.

Lister smiled with humorous resignation. "I must. The strange thing is,

when I left my job before I was keen to get back. Now I'd rather stop

and loaf."

"Then you were not bored at Winnipeg?"

"Not at all," Lister declared. "If it would give me a holiday like this,

I'd get hurt again."

"I expect the woods get dreary. Then, perhaps, one doesn't make much

progress by sticking to the track? Don't you want to get into the office

where the big plans are made?"

"I don't know," said Lister thoughtfully. "On the track you're all right

if you know your job; at headquarters you need qualities I don't know

are mine. Anyhow, I'm not likely to get there, if I want or not."

Ruth gave him a curious glance. "Sometimes one's friends can help. Would

you really like a headquarters post?"

Lister moved abruptly and his mouth got firm. Perhaps Ruth exaggerated

her father's importance, but it was possible Duveen could get him

promotion. All the same, Lister saw what his taking the job implied; he

must give up his independence and be Duveen's man. Moreover, if the girl

meant to help, she had some grounds for doing so. He thrilled and was

tempted, but he thought hard. It looked as if she liked him and was

perhaps willing to embark upon a sentimental adventure, but he thought

this was all. She would not marry a poor man.

"No," he said, with a touch of awkwardness. "I reckon I had better stick

to the track. To know where you properly belong is something, and if I

took the other job, my chiefs would soon find me out."

"You're modest," Ruth remarked. "One likes modest people, but don't you

think you're obstinate?"

"When the trail you hit goes uphill, obstinacy's useful."

"If you won't take help, you may be long reaching the top, but we'll let

it go. The wind hasn't dropped much. How can we get back?"

"We must wait," Lister replied with a twinkle. "The trouble about an

adventure is, when you start you're often forced to stay with it and put

it over. That sometimes costs more than you reckon."

Ruth's eyes sparkled, but she forced a smile. "Logical people make me

tired. But why do you imagine I haven't the pluck to pay?"

"I don't," said Lister. "I've no grounds to imagine anything like that.

My business was to take care of you and I ought to have seen the storm

was coming. Now I'm mad because I didn't watch out."

"Sometimes you're rather nice," Ruth remarked. "You know I made you go

on. All the same, we must start as soon as possible."

Lister got up presently and launched the canoe. The thunder had gone,

but the breeze was strong and angry white waves rolled up the lake. To

drive the canoe to windward was heavy labor, and while she lurched

slowly across the combers the sun got low. Lister's wet hands blistered

and his arms ached, but he swung the paddle stubbornly, and at length

the houses and hotel stood out from the beach. When they got near the

landing Ruth looked ahead.

"The train's ready to pull out!" she exclaimed. "Can you make it?"

Lister tried. His face got dark with effort and his hands bled, but in a

few minutes he ran the canoe aground. Ruth jumped out and they reached

the station as the bell began to toll. Duveen waved to them from the

track by the front of the train and then jumped on board, and Lister

pushed Ruth up the steps of the last car. The car was second-class and

crowded by returning holiday-makers, but the conductor, who did not know

Lister and Miss Duveen, declared all the train was full and they must

stay where they were. When he went off and locked the vestibule Lister

looked about.

All the seats and much of the central passage were occupied, for the

most part by young men and women. Some were frankly lovers and did not

look disturbed by the banter of their friends. Lister was embarrassed,

for Ruth's sake, until he saw with some surprise that she studied the

others with amused curiosity. Looking down he met her twinkling glance

and thought it something like a challenge. His embarrassment got worse.

One could not talk because of the noise and to shout was ridiculous. He

must stand in a cramped pose and try not to fall against Ruth when the

cars rocked. He admitted that his proper background was the rude

construction camp, and it was something of a relief when they rolled

into Winnipeg.

Duveen's car was at the station, and Ruth stopped for a moment before

she got on board.

"You start on Monday and we will be out of town to-morrow. I wish you

good luck."

Lister thanked her, and when she got into the car she gave him a curious

smile. "I think I liked you better in the woods," she said, and the car

rolled off.

CHAPTER VII

LISTER'S DISSATISFACTION

Soon after his return from Winnipeg, Lister stood one evening by a

length of track planned to cut out an awkward curve. The new line ran

into a muskeg that sucked down brush and logs and the loads of numerous

gravel trains. Angry foremen declared one could not fill up the bog, and

Lister knew the heads of the construction office grumbled about the

delay. He was tired, for he had been strenuously occupied since morning,

but could not persuade himself that the work had made much progress.

Small trees lay in tangled rows about the fresh gravel; farther back,

the standing bush ran in a broken line against the fading light. In

front, thin mist drifted across the muskeg where slender trunks rose

from the quaking mud. Not far off a high, wooden trestle carried the

rails across a ravine. The bridge would presently be rebuilt with steel,

but in the meantime the frame was open and the gaps between the ties

were wide.

It was getting dark and noisy blast-lamps threw up pillars of white

fire. The line had sunk in the afternoon and it was necessary to lift

the rails and fill up the subsidence before the next gravel train

arrived. Lister was angry and puzzled, for he had pushed the road-bed

across to near the other side, but the rails had not sunk in the new

belt but in ground over which the trains had run.

By and by a man joined him and remarked: "The boys have got the ties up,

but I reckon they won't fix the track for three or four hours. Looks as

if the blamed muskeg was going to beat us."

"She can't beat us," Lister rejoined impatiently. "The trouble is,

hauling the stuff she swallows runs up construction costs, and that

counts against us. Did you leave Willis with the gang?"

The other laughed. "I did not. He was tired. Wanted something at the

office and allowed he'd stop and take a smoke."

"Hustle him out when you go along, Kemp. I'd sooner our chiefs down East

had kept that young man. The job's not soft enough for him. However, I

s'pose he lighted the lamp across the bridge?"

"Willis has friends," Kemp remarked meaningly, and indicated a

reflection behind the trees. "The lamp's burning."

Lister glanced at the trembling light. "I expect it's good enough for

the engineer, but the flame's not steady. Willis hasn't bothered to get

the pressure right. It's possible he didn't wait until she warmed the

oil."

The powerful lamp had been carried across the bridge in order to warn

the engineer of the gravel train, who on his last journey had run to the

end of the line. The light could be seen for some distance up the track.

"I got after Hardie about making good time. We must dump his load in the

soft spot before we stop," Lister resumed.

"He's coming now; climbing the height of land," said Kemp. "He'll let

her go all out when he makes the top."

A measured throb rolled across the woods, and as the noise got louder

the beat of the exhaust marked the progress of the train. The explosive

snorts indicated that the locomotive labored up the last steep pitch,

and Lister sat down by the rails. He was tired and would not be needed

until the gravel plough threw the rattling ballast off the cars. After a

few moments he looked up, for a man came out of the gloom.

"Hello, Willis! I s'pose you've been taking a quiet smoke?"

"That's so," said the other. "I've hustled round since sun-up and

imagined the gang could get along for half an hour without my watching.

You want to leave something to your foremen."

Lister said nothing. He did not choose his helpers, but tried to make

the best use of those the bosses sent. Willis had some useful qualities,

but he was slack, and got sulky if one drove him hard. The young man had

come from the drawing-office of a famous bridge-building works.

In the meantime, the rumble of the gravel train grew to a pulsating

roar. The locomotive had crossed the divide and was running furiously

down grade. The roughly-ballasted track was uneven, but the engineer had

been on board since daybreak and no doubt wanted to finish his job.

"She's in the rock cut now," Kemp remarked. "Hardie ought to throttle

down when he runs out and sees the light."

Lister listened. The swelling note indicated that the train had left the

cut, but it did not look as if the engineer was pulling up.

"She's coming along pretty fast," said Willis. "If he doesn't snub her

soon, she'll jump the steel and take the muskeg."

Next moment Lister was on his feet. Hardie was driving too fast; Lister

doubted if he could stop before the heavy train plunged through the

broken track. The unsteady white flicker behind the trees had sunk and

changed to smoky red. If looked as if the oil was not vaporizing

properly and the lamp was going out. When the engineer saw the light it

would be too late.

"Get the boys off the track. I'll try to fix the lamp," Lister shouted,

and started for the bridge.

The errand was not his. Willis had lighted the lamp: moreover, one might

have sent a workman, but when a job was urgent Lister went himself. The

job was urgent and dangerous. Unless he made good speed, he would meet

the train on the bridge and the cylinders of the locomotive projected

beyond the edge.

The track was rough and fresh gravel rolled under his feet. Now and then

he struck a cross-tie and nearly fell. It had got dark and among the

trees the gloom was deep; one could not see the ties. Yet he must run,

and his breath got labored and his heart thumped. He did not know where

the train was, only that it was near. The woods throbbed with a savage

din; the big cars, loaded with rattling gravel, clanged and roared as

they plunged down grade.

Lister hardly thought he could stop the train. It looked as if he would

be caught on the trestle, but he meant to go on. He did not argue about

it; he was rather moved by instinctive stubbornness. At moments of

strain one does not argue and logic has no appeal. Character counts for

all, and Lister followed his bent. His job was urgent and must be

carried out.

When he reached the bridge he saw white threads of water between the

timbers of the open frame. The spacing of the ties was not regular, and

if he stepped short, or too far, he would go through. Then, if he did

not strike a brace, he would fall upon the rocks in the stream. All the

same, he saw the blaze of the head-lamp pick out the trees across the

ravine and sprang on to the bridge.

Somehow he hit the ties; perhaps by subconscious judgment, and perhaps

by good luck. Then he felt loose gravel under his feet and thrilled with

a strange fierce satisfaction. His breath was labored and his body wet

by sweat, but the moving beam had not reached the lamp. He was going to

make it.

When the black front of a gravel car leaped out of the gloom he jumped

off the track. The locomotive pushed the cars, the train was long, and

the lamp was but a few yards off. It had not gone out, although the

flame had sunk to a faint red jet that would not be seen in the dust.

His hands shook, but he gave the pump a few strokes and turned the valve

wheel. The red jet got white and leaped higher and Lister, pumping hard,

looked up the track. Big cars, rocking and banging, rushed past in a

cloud of dust. Bits of gravel struck him and rattled against the lamp.

The blurred, dark figures of men who sat upon the load cut against the

fan-shaped beam, and in the background he saw a shower of leaping

sparks.

But the other light was growing and Lister turned the wheel. Burning oil

splashed around him, a pillar of fire rushed up, and when a whistle

screamed he let go the valve and turned from the blinding dust. He was

shaking, but the heavy snorting stopped. The engineer had seen the light

and cut off steam.

When Lister looked round the train was gone. He had done what he had

undertaken, and after waiting for a few moments he started back. Now he

could go cautiously, he stopped and tried to brace himself at the end of

the bridge. Although he had run across not long since, he shrank from

the dark, forbidding gaps. For all that, he must get back, and feeling

carefully for the ties, he reached the other side and was for some time

engaged at the muskeg where two cars had overrun the broken rails. At

length he went to the log shack he used for his office and

sleeping-room, and soon after he lighted his pipe Kemp came in.

"You made it," Kemp remarked. "When you stopped me at the bridge I saw

you'd get there."

Lister laughed. "Now you talk about it, I believe I did shout you to go

back. Anyhow, you were some way behind. Did Willis come?"

"He did not. Willis was badly rattled and started for the muskeg.

Thought he might get the track thrown across the hole, perhaps! I'm

rather sorry for the kid. But what are you going to do about it?"

"Report we had two cars bogged and state the cost of labor. That's all,

I think."

Kemp nodded. "Well, perhaps there's no use in talking about the lamp.

Our business is to make good, using the tools we've got. All the same,

if they want a man somewhere else, I guess I'd recommend Willis."

He smoked quietly for a time, and then resumed: "We don't get forward

much. In fact, if the new Western irrigation company would take me on, I

think I'd quit."

Lister pondered. Since his short stop at Winnipeg he had been conscious

of a strange restlessness. He wanted something the woods could not give,

and had begun to think life had more to offer than he had known.

Besides, he was not making much progress.

"Since the double track is to be pushed on across the plains, the

department will need a bigger staff and there ought to be a chance for

some of us," he said. "Then there's the new work with the long bridges

on the lake section that will carry higher pay. We're next on turn and

have some claim. They ought to move us up."

"I doubt. We didn't come from a famous office, and it's not always

enough to know your job."

"Somebody will get a better post, and if I'm lucky I'll stay. If not, I

think I'll try the irrigation works."

"I feel like that," Kemp declared. "But suppose the irrigation people

turn our application down?"

"Then I'll lie off for a time. Except when I went, to McGill with money

I earned on a wheat barge, I haven't stopped work since I was a boy. Now

I'm getting tired and think I'll pull out and go across to look at the

Old Country. My father was an Englishman, and I have some money to

burn."

"A good plan," Kemp agreed. "After a change you come back fresh with a

stronger punch. Well, if we're not put on to the lake section, we'll try

the irrigation scheme."

He got up and went off, but Lister sat on his bunk and smoked. The bunk

was packed with swamp-grass on which his coarse Hudson's Bay blankets

were laid, and the shack was bare. Ragged slickers and old overalls

occupied the wall, long gum-boots a corner. A big box carried an iron

wash-basin, and a small table some drawing instruments. Lister was not

fastidious, and, as a rule, did not stop long enough at one spot to

justify his making his shack comfortable. Besides, he found it necessary

to concentrate on his work, and had not much time to think about

refinements.

All the same, he felt the shack was dreary and his life was bleak. He

had not felt this until he went to Winnipeg. On the whole, he had liked

the struggle against physical obstacles. It was his proper job, but the

struggle was stern and sometimes exhausting, and his reward was small.

Now he wanted something different, and gave himself to vague and

brooding discontent.

Ruth Duveen had broken his former tranquillity. In a sense, she had

awakened him, and he imagined she had meant to do so. All the same, to

think she loved him was ridiculous; she was rather experimenting with

fresh material. Yet she was accountable for his discontent. She had

helped him to see that while he labored in the woods he had missed much.

He wanted the society of cultivated women and men with power and

influence; to use control instead of carrying out orders; and to know

something of refinement and beauty. After all, his father was a

cultivated Englishman, although Lister imagined he had inherited

qualities that helped him most from his Canadian mother. It was all he

had inherited, except some debts he had laboriously paid.

He admitted that to realize his ambitions might be hard, but he meant to

try. Canada was for the young and stubborn. If his chiefs did not

promote him, he would make a plunge, and if his new plan did not work,

he would go over and see the Old Country. Then he would come back,

braced and refreshed, and try his luck again.

Putting down his pipe, he got into bed. He was tired and in the morning

the gravel cars must be pulled out of the muskeg. The job was awkward,

and while he thought about it he went to sleep.

CHAPTER VIII

THE TEST

A boisterous wind swept the high plain and round, white-edged clouds

rolled across the sky. The grass that ran back from the horizon was

parched, and in the distance a white streak of blowing dust marked a

dried alkali lake. Dust of dark color drove along the row of wooden

stores and houses that fronted the railroad track, across which three

grain elevators rose like castles. The telegraph posts along the track

melted into the level waste, and behind the spot where they vanished the

tops of a larger group of elevators cut the edge of the plain.

The street was not paved, and the soil was deeply ploughed by wheels.

The soil was the black gumbo in which the wheat plant thrives, but the

town occupied the fringe of a dry belt and farming had not made much

progress. Now, however, a company was going to irrigate the land with

water from a river fed by the Rockies' snow. The town was square, and

although it looked much smaller than real-estate agents' maps indicated,

it was ornamented by four wooden churches, a Y.M.C.A. like a temple, and

an ambitious public hall.

The Tecumseh Hotel occupied a corner lot at the end of the street and

was not remarkably commodious or clean, but its charges were less than

the Occidental's by the station, and Lister and Kemp were not

fastidious. Some time had gone since they pulled the gravel cars out of

the swamp and they had not been sent to the lake section. In

consequence, they had applied to the irrigation company for a post, and

having been called to meet the engineers and directors, imagined they

were on the short list.

Lister lounged against the rails on the Tecumseh veranda. The boards

were cracked and dirty; burned matches and cigar ends were scattered

about, and a skeleton, gauze covered door that shut with a powerful

spring kept some of the flies and mosquitoes out of the hotel.

"We'll know to-morrow," he remarked presently.

Kemp nodded. "I can't figure on our chances. Feel anxious about it?"

"Not much. In fact, I mean to use the thing to test my luck. If we're

engaged, I'll stay in Canada; if they turn us down, I'll start for the

Old Country."

"You have no particular plans, I reckon."

"No," said Lister, smiling. "I'm going to look about. I know our new

Western towns, but I want to see old cities, churches, and cathedrals;

the great jobs men made before they used concrete and steel. Then I'd

like to study art and music and see the people my father talked about.

Ours is a good country, but when it's all you know it gets monotonous."

He indicated the row of wooden houses and lonely plain. "One wants more

than the track and this."

"It's possible you may go across," said Kemp. "Looks as if the company's

short list was pretty long. There's a gang of candidates in town, we

have no pull on the directors, and I don't know if our advantages are

very marked--" He stopped and laughed, for a man came round the corner.

"Hello, Willis!" he exclaimed. "When did you arrive?"

"I came in on the last train. Got a notice to meet the Irrigation

Board."

"Oh, well," said Kemp, "since the applicants are more numerous than the

posts, I reckon another won't count. Do you expect they're going to take

you on?"

"I expect my chance is as good as yours."

"I'll sell you my chance for ten dollars," Kemp rejoined.

"Nothing doing, at the price," said Willis, and went off.

Kemp laughed. Willis was marked by a superficial smartness his comrades

sometimes found amusing and sometimes annoying. For the most part, they

bore with him good-humoredly, but did not trust him when work that

needed careful thought was done.

"The kid looks confident, but his applying for a job is something of a

joke," Kemp remarked. "I'd put his value at fifty cents a day."

Lister agreed, and looked up the dusty street. The fronts of the small

frame houses were cracked by the sun, and some were carried up to hide

the roof and give the building a fictitious height. A Clover-leaf wagon

stood in front of a store, the wheels crusted by dry mud, and the team

fidgeted amidst a swarm of flies. Except for one or two railroad hands

waiting by the caboose of a freight train, nobody was about. The town

looked strangely dreary.

Yet Lister knew it stood for all the relief from labor in the stinging

alkali dust one could get. One could loaf in a hard chair in front of

the hotel, lose a dollar or two at the shabby pool-room, or go to a

movie show and see pictures of frankly ridiculous Western melodrama. In

the real West, the pictures were ridiculous, because romantic

shootings-up did not happen. In fact, unless a stubborn labor dispute

began, nothing broke the dull monotony of toilsome effort. Romance had

vanished with the buffaloes. Lister admitted that he had not long felt

the monotony. The trouble began when he stopped at Winnipeg.

"I think I'll go up the street," he said.

A rough plank sidewalk ran in front of the houses, and Lister imagined

it was needed when the spring thaw and summer thunder-storms softened

the gumbo soil. Opposite the Occidental he stopped, for Duveen occupied

a chair on the veranda. While Lister hesitated Duveen beckoned him to

come up.

"It's hot and dusty. Will you take a drink?" he said.

Lister refused with thanks and wondered whether Ruth was at the hotel.

In a way, he would like to see her, but admitted that perhaps he had

better not. When he asked if she was well Duveen said she had gone to

Quebec, and gave Lister a cigar.

"It looks as if you had left the railroad," he remarked.

"I have not left yet," said Lister cautiously.

"Then, you won't go unless you get a better job? Did you know I had

joined the Irrigation Board?"

Lister said he did not know, and got embarrassed when Duveen gave him a

thoughtful glance. He wondered whether Ruth had talked to Duveen before

she hinted he might get a better post.

"Perhaps I ought not to have come up. In fact, I hesitated--"

Duveen laughed. "So I remarked! You reckoned the Occidental stoop was

pretty public and your talking to me might imply that you wanted my

support? Well, I'll risk that. It's obvious you're on the short list. Do

you want a post?"

For a moment or two Lister pondered. He did want a post; anyhow, he

ought to try for it. On the whole he liked Duveen, and thought he might

have liked Ruth better had she not been rich. All the same, Duveen was a

shrewd manipulator of new industries and to take a post by his favor

would be to own a debt, for which payment might be demanded. Yet Duveen

had been kind and Lister hesitated.

"I asked for a post," he said. "If I'm engaged, I'll try to make good;

but I must make good at the dam or on the ditch. Then I don't want to

bother my friends. The company has my engineering record and must judge

my usefulness by this. If they're not satisfied, I won't grumble much."

"You're an independent fellow, but I think I understand," Duveen

rejoined with a twinkle. "A company director's duty _is_ to judge an

applicant for a post by his professional record. If you are appointed,

you want us to appoint you because we believe you are the proper man?"

"Something like that," said Lister quietly.

Duveen nodded, and his glance rested for a moment on Lister's forehead.

"I see the mark you got on board the train hasn't altogether gone. Did

you hear anything about the girl you helped?"

"I did not," said Lister, starting, for he had not imagined Duveen knew

about the girl. "I have not seen her since she went off on the

locomotive."

"Then she has not written to you since?"

"She could not write, because she doesn't know who I am, and I don't

know her. We talked for a minute or two, that's all."

Duveen's face was inscrutable and Lister wondered whether he doubted his

statement. He was annoyed because the other knew so much.

"Oh, well," said Duveen, "I expect you heard they didn't catch Shillito,

and since he got across the frontier, it's possible the Canadian police

won't see him again. But I must get ready for supper. Will you stay?"

Lister excused himself and went back to the Tecumseh, where the bill of

fare was frugal and the serving rude. He imagined he had refused much

more than a first-class supper, but was satisfied he had taken the

proper line. For one thing, Duveen knew Ruth had given him her

friendship and, since he knew his daughter, it was significant that he

had not thought it necessary to meddle. Lister wondered whether he had

meant to use him, and was glad he had kept his independence. If he got

the post now, he would know he had rather misjudged Duveen, but he

doubted. All the same, he liked the man.

After supper Kemp and he sat on the veranda and watched the green glow

fade from the edge of the plain. They did not talk much, but by and by

Kemp remarked: "I thought I saw you go into the Occidental."

"Duveen called me on to the stoop."

"Duveen?" Kemp exclaimed. "Then he's got his hand on the wires! If the

Irrigation Company puts the undertaking over, a number of the dollars

will go to Duveen's wad. If he's your friend, I expect you know he could

get you the job."

"It's possible. All the same, I hinted I didn't want his help."

Kemp laughed. "You surprise me every time! I'm all for a square deal and

down with scheming grafters and log-rollers, but I allow I hate them

worst when they give another fellow the post I want."

"The thing's not fixed yet. The company's engineers are going to judge

and our record's pretty good. They may engage us. We'll know to-morrow."

"Sure thing," Kemp remarked dryly. "I reckon we'll both pull out on the

first train."

It began to get dark and Lister went off to bed. He must get water from

a cistern in the roof and to carry the heavy jug was awkward when one

could not see. At the Tecumseh the guests were expected to carry water

for themselves, and Lister, groping along the shadowy passage with his

load, thought his doing so had some significance. It was part of the

price he must pay for freedom.

At the time fixed in the morning, he went to the Occidental and was

shown into a room where a number of gentlemen occupied a table. One or

two were smoking and the others talked in low voices, but when Lister

came in and the secretary indicated a chair they turned as if to study

him. Duveen sat next a man at the end of the table and gave Lister a

nod. Somehow Lister thought he was amused.

Lister's heart beat. He felt this was ridiculous, because he had

persuaded himself it did not matter whether he got the post or not. Now,

however, when the moment to try his luck had come, he shrank from the

plunge he had resolved to make if he were not engaged. After all, he

knew and liked his occupation; to let it go and try fresh fields would

be something of a wrench.

The gentlemen did not embarrass him. On the whole, they were urbane, and

when the secretary gave the chairman his application one asked a few

questions about the work he had done. Lister was able to answer

satisfactorily, and another talked to him about the obstacles

encountered when one excavated treacherous gravel and built a bank to

stand angry floods. For all that, Lister was anxious. The others looked

bored, as if they were politely playing a game. He thought they knew

beforehand how the game would end, but he did not know. The inquiries

that bored the urbane gentlemen had important consequences for him and

the suspense was keen.

At length they let him go, and Duveen gave him a smile that Lister

thought implied much. When he returned to the hotel Kemp remarked that

he looked as if he needed a drink, and suggested that Lister go with him

and get one.

"I need three or four drinks, but mean to go without," said Lister

grimly. "I begin to understand how some men get the tanking habit."

He started off across the plain, and coming back too late for lunch,

found Kemp on the veranda. Kemp looked as if he were trying to be

philosophical, but found it hard.

"The secretary arrived not long since," he said. "A polite man! He

didn't want to let us down too heavily."

"Ah!" said Lister. "The Irrigation people have no use for us?"

Kemp nodded. "Willis has got the best job; they've hired up two or three

others, but we're left out."

"Willis!" exclaimed Lister, and joined in Kemp's laugh.

"After all, the money he's going to get is theirs," said Kemp. "In this

country we're a curious lot. We let grafters and wire-pullers run us,

and, when we start a big job, get away with much of the capital we want

for machines; but somehow we make good. We shoulder a load we needn't

carry and hit the pace up hot. If we got clean control, I reckon we'd

never stop. However, there's not much use in philosophizing when you've

lost your job, and the East-bound train goes out in a few minutes. You'd

better pack your grip."

CHAPTER IX

BARBARA PLAYS A PART

Lister returned to the railroad camp and stayed until the company sent a

man to fill his post. In the meantime, he wrote to some of his father's

relations, whom he had not seen, and their reply was kind. They stated

that while he was in England he must make their house his home. When his

successor arrived he started for Montreal, and one afternoon sat under a

tree in the square by the cathedral.

The afternoon was calm. A thunderstorm that wet the streets had gone,

and an enervating damp heat brooded over the city. After the fresh winds

that sweep the woods and plains, Lister felt the languid air made him

slack and dull. His steamer did not sail until daybreak, and since he

had gone up the mountain and seen the cathedral and Notre Dame, he did

not know what to do. The bench he occupied was in the shade, and he

smoked and looked about.

Cabs rolled up the street to the big hotel across the square, and behind

the trees the huge block of the C.P.R. station cut the sky. One heard

whistles, the rumble of heavy wheels, and the tolling of locomotive

bells. Pigeons flew down from the cathedral dome and searched the damp

gravel.

A group of foreign emigrants picnicked in the shade. Their clothes were

old and greasy; they carried big shapeless bundles and looked tired and

worn. Lister could not guess their nationality, but imagined they had

known poverty and oppression in Eastern Europe. It was obvious they had

recently disembarked from a crowded steerage and waited for an emigrant

train. They were going West, to the land of promise, and Lister wished

them luck. He and they were birds of passage and, with all old landmarks

left behind, rested for a few hours on their journey.

He studied the group. The men looked dull and beaten; the women had no

beauty and had grown coarse with toil. Their faces were pinched and

their shoulders bent. Only the children, in spite of rags and dirt,

struck a hopeful note. Yet the forlorn strangers had pluck; they had

made a great adventure and might get their reward. Lister had seen

others in the West, who had made good, breaking soil they owned and

walking with the confident step of self-respecting men. On the plains,

stubborn labor was rewarded, but one needed pluck to leave all one knew

and break custom's familiar but heavy yoke.

By and by Lister remembered he wanted to take his relations a few

typically Canadian presents. He had seen nothing that satisfied him at

Winnipeg, and had better look about the shops at Montreal. Anyhow, it

would amuse him for an hour or two. He got up, went along the path for a

few yards, and then stopped.

Across the clanging of the locomotive bells and the roll of trolley cars

at the bottom of the hill he heard sweet voices. The music was faint and

somehow ethereal, as if it fell from a height. One lost it now and then.

It came from the cathedral and Lister stopped and listened. He did not

know what office was being sung, but the jaded emigrants knew, for a

child got up and stood with bent head, holding a greasy cap, and a

ragged woman's face got gentle as she signed herself with the cross. It

looked as if the birds of passage had found a landmark in a foreign

land. Lister was moved, and gave the child a coin before he went off.

He strolled east, past Notre Dame, towards the post office, about which

the stately banks and imposing office blocks stand. This quarter of the

city drew him, for one saw how constructive talent and imagination could

be used, and he wondered whether England had new buildings like these.

Sometimes one felt the Western towns were raw and vulgar, but one saw

the bold Canadian genius at its best in Montreal.

After a time he stopped in front of a shop in a short side street.

Indian embroidery work and enameled silver occupied the window, and

although Lister was not an artist he had an eye for line and knew the

things were good. The soft, stained deerskin was cleverly embroidered;

he liked the warm colors of the enamel, and going in was shown a tray of

spoons.

The shop, shut in by high buildings, was dark and smelt of aromatic wood

and leather, but a beam from a window pierced the gloom and sparkled on

the silver. This was emblazoned with the arms of the Provinces; the

Ship, the Wheatsheaves, and the red Maple Leaf. Lister picked up the

articles, and while he did so was vaguely conscious that a girl at the

opposite counter studied him. He, however, did not look up until he had

selected a few of the spoons, and then he started.

The light that touched the girl's face did not illuminate it all. Her

profile was sharp as an old daguerreotype: he saw the flowing line from

brow to chin, drawn with something of austere classic beauty, the arched

lips and the faint indication of a gently-rounded cheek. The rest was in

shadow, and the contrast of light and gloom was like a Rembrandt

picture. Then the enameled spoons rattled as Lister put down the tray.

He knew the picture. When he last saw the girl, her face was lighted

like that by the blaze of a locomotive head-lamp.

"I'll take these things," he said, and crossed the floor.

The girl moved back, but he indicated a bundle of deerskin articles he

thought her business was to sell. Her color was high; he noted the vivid

white and pink against the dull background of stained leather.

"What does one do with those bags?" he asked.

"They're useful for keeping gloves and handkerchiefs," she replied. "The

pattern is worked in sinews, but we have some with a neat colored

embroidery." She paused and signed to a saleswoman farther on. "Will you

bring this gentleman the Revillon goods?"

Lister's object for stopping her was not very plain, but he did not mean

to let her go.

"Please don't bother. I expect to find something in this bundle," he

said to the approaching saleswoman. Then he turned to the girl in front.

"Let me look at the bag with the arrow-head pattern."

She gave him the bag, and although her glance was steady he knew she was

embarrassed.

"If you will wrap it up, I'll keep this one," he resumed. "I expect you

have not forgotten me. When I came into the shop I didn't imagine I

should meet you, but if you'd sooner I went off, I'll go."

"I have not forgotten," she admitted, and her color faded and came back

to her delicate skin.

"Very well! Since I sail to-night on the Allan boat, it's plain you

needn't be afraid of my bothering you. All the same, we were partners in

an adventure that ought to make us friends. Can't I meet you for a few

minutes when you stop work?"

She hesitated, and then gave him a searching glance.

"Come to the fountain up the street in an hour. This is my early

evening."

Lister went off with the bag and spoons, and when he returned to the

fountain saw her crossing the square in front. She was dressed like the

shop-girls he had seen hurrying on board the street cars in the morning;

her clothes were pretty and fashionable, but Lister thought the material

was cheap. He felt she ought not to wear things like that. While she

advanced he studied her. She was attractive, in a way he had hardly

remarked on board the train. One rather noted her quick, resolute

movements, the sparkle in her eyes, and her keen vitality. Lister began

to think he had unconsciously noted much.

"I'm going to take you to supper, and you can send me off when you like

afterwards," he said and started across the square. A famous restaurant

was not far off.

"No," she said, as if she knew where he was going. "If I go with you, it

must be the tea-rooms I and my friends use." She gave him a rather hard

smile and added: "There's no use in my going where I don't belong."

Lister said nothing, but while they walked across the town she talked

with a brightness he thought forced, and when they stopped at a small

tea-room in a side street he frowned. He was persuaded she did not

belong there. She was playing a part, perhaps not very cleverly since he

had found her out. She wanted him to think her a shop-girl enjoying an

evening's adventure; her talk and careless laugh hinted at this, but

Lister was not cheated.

They went in. The room was small and its ornamentation unusual.

Imitation vines crawled about light wooden arches, cutting up the floor

space into quiet corners. The room was rather dark, but pink lamps shone

among the leaves and the soft light touched the tables and clusters of

artificial grapes. Lister thought the plan was well carried out, for the

grapes were the small red Muskokas that grow in Canada. When he picked

up the menu card he understood why girls from the stores and offices

used the place.

Lister ordered the best supper the French-Canadian landlady could serve,

and then began to talk while he helped his companion. The corner they

occupied was secluded and he owned that to sup with an attractive girl

had a romantic charm. He noted that she frankly enjoyed the food and he

liked her light, quick laugh and the sparkle in her eyes. Her thin

summer clothes hinted at a slender, finely-lined form, and her careless

pose was graceful.

He wondered whether she felt her meeting him was something of an

adventure, but he was persuaded she was playing a part. Her frankness

was not bold, the little, French-Canadian gestures were obviously

borrowed, and some of the colloquialisms she used were out of date.

Except for these, her talk was cultivated. For a time Lister tried to

play up, and then resolved to see if he could break her reserve.

"It looks as if you made Malcolm all right on board the gravel train,"

he remarked.

She gave him a quick glance and colored. "Yes, I made it and got the

East-bound express. The engineer was kind. I expect you told him he must

help?"

"When I put you on board the locomotive I knew Roberts would see you

out. He's a sober fellow and has two girls as old as you."

"You don't know how old I am," she said with an effort for carelessness.

"Anyhow, it's plain you are young enough to be rash," Lister rejoined.

She put down her cup and her glance was soft. He saw she was not acting.

"I don't think I really was rash--not _then_. It's something to know

when you can trust people, and I did know."

Lister was embarrassed, but her gentleness had charm. He did not want

her to resume her other manner. Then he was tempted to make an

experiment.

"You know Shillito got away?"

Her lips trembled and the blood came to her skin, but she fronted him

bravely and he felt ashamed.

"Yes," she said. "I think I would sooner he had been caught! But why did

you begin to talk about Shillito?"

"Perhaps I oughtn't; I'm sorry."

She studied him and he thought she pondered, although it was possible

she wanted to recover her calm.

"Unless you are very dull, you know something," she resumed with an

effort. "Well, I was rash, but just before I saw you on the platform I

found out all I'd risked. I think I was desperate; I meant to jump off

the train, only it was going fast and water shone under the bridge. Then

you pushed me from the step and I felt I must make another plunge and

try to get your help. Now I'm glad I did so. But that's all."

Lister understood that the thing was done with. She would tell him

nothing more, and he was sorry he had indulged his curiosity.

"Oh, well," he said, "there's not much risk of my bothering you about

the fellow again. I start for England in a few hours."

Her glance got wistful. She moved her plate and her hand trembled.

"You are English?" he resumed.

"I met you first on board a Canadian train and now you find me helping

at a Montreal store. Isn't this enough? Why do you try to find out where

I come from?"

"I'm sorry. All the same, you're not a Canadian."

"I am a Canadian now," she rejoined, and then added, as if she were

resolved to talk about something else, "There's a mark on your forehead,

like a deep cut. You hadn't got it when I saw you on the platform."

"No," said Lister. "I fell down some steps not long afterwards."

She looked at him sharply and then exclaimed: "Oh! the newspapers said

there was a struggle on the train! Somebody helped the police and got

hurt. It was you. Shillito knew you had meddled. You got the cut for

me!"

"We agreed we wouldn't talk about Shillito. I got the cut because I

didn't want to see a young police trooper knocked out. People who meddle

do get hurt now and then. Anyhow, it's some time since and I think we'll

let it go. Suppose you tell me about Montreal and your job at the

store?"

She roused herself and began to talk. Lister thought it cost her

something, but she sketched her working companions with skill and humor.

She used their accent and their French-Canadian gestures. Lister laughed

and led her on, although he got a hint of strain. The girl was not happy

and he had noted her wistful look when she talked about England. At

length she got up, and stopping at the door for a moment gave him her

hand.

"Thank you. I wish you _bon voyage_," she said.

"Can't we go somewhere else? Is there nothing doing at the theaters?"

Lister asked.

"No," she said resolutely; "I'm going home. Anyhow, I'm going where I

live."

Lister let her go, but waited, watching her while she went up the

street. Somehow she looked forlorn and he felt pitiful. He remembered

that he did not know her name, which he had wanted to ask but durst not.

When he returned to his hotel he stopped at the desk and gave the clerk

a cigarette. As a rule, a Canadian hotel clerk knows something about

everybody of importance in the town.

"I bought some _souvenirs_ at a curiosity depot," he said, and told the

other where the shop was. "Although they charged me pretty high, the

things looked good."

"You haven't got stung," the clerk remarked. "The folks are

French-Canadians but they like a square deal. If you put up the money,

they put up the goods."

"The shop hands looked smart and bright. If you study the sales people,

you can sometimes tell how a store is run."

"That's so. Those girls don't want to grumble. They're treated all

right."

"Oh, well," said Lister, "since I don't know much about enameled goods

and deerskin truck, I'm glad I've not got stung."

When he went off the other smiled, for a hotel clerk is not often

cheated, and he thought he saw where Lister's remarks led. Lister,

however, was strangely satisfied. It was something to know the

storekeepers were honest and kind to the people they employed.

CHAPTER X

VERNON'S CURIOSITY

Silky blue lines streaked the long undulations that ran back to the

horizon and the _Flaminian_ rolled with a measured swing. When her bows

went down the shining swell broke with a dull roar and rainbows

flickered in the spray about her forecastle; then, while the long deck

got level, one heard the beat of engines and the grinding of screws. A

wake like an angry torrent foamed astern, and in the distance, where the

dingy smoke-cloud melted, the crags of Labrador ran in faint, broken

line. Ahead an ice-floe glittered in the sun. The liner had left Belle

Isle Strait and was steaming towards Greenland on the northern Atlantic

course.

Harry Vernon occupied a chair on the saloon-deck and read the _Montreal

Star_ which had been sent on board at Rimouski. The light reflected by

the white boats and deck was strong; he was not much interested, and put

down the newspaper when Lister joined him. They had met on the journey

from Winnipeg to Montreal, and on boarding the _Flaminian_ Lister was

given the second berth in Vernon's room. Vernon liked Lister.

"Take a smoke," he said, indicating a packet of cigarettes. "Nothing

fresh in the newspapers. They've caught the fellow Porteous; he was

trying to steal across to Detroit."

Lister sat down and lighted a cigarette. Porteous was a clerk who had

not long since gone off with a large sum of his employer's money.

"Canada is getting a popular hunting ground for smart crooks. It looks

as if our business men were easily robbed."

"There are two kinds of business men; one lot makes things, the other

buys and sells. Some of the first are pretty good manufacturers, but

stop at that. They concentrate on manufacturing and hire a specialist to

look after finance."

"But if the specialist's a crook, can't you spot him when he gets to

work?"

"As a rule, the men who get stung know all about machines and material

but nothing about book-keeping," Vernon replied. "A bright accountant

could rob one or two I've met when he was asleep. For example, there was

Shillito. His employers were big and prosperous lumber people; clever

men at their job, but Shillito gambled with their money for some time

before they got on his track. I expect you read about him in the

newspapers?"

Lister smiled and, pushing back his cap, touched his forehead.

"I know something about Shillito. That's his mark!"

"Then you were the man he knocked out!" Vernon exclaimed. "But he hasn't

got your money. Why did you help the police?"

"It isn't very obvious. Somehow, I didn't like the fellow. Then, you

see, the girl--"

"The girl? What had a girl to do with it?"

Lister frowned. He had not meant to talk about the girl and was angry

because he had done so, but did not see how he could withdraw his

careless statement. Moreover Vernon looked interested, and it was

important that both were typical Canadians. The young Canadian is not

subtle; as a rule, his talk is direct, and at awkward moments he is

generally marked by a frank gravity. Vernon was grave now and Lister

thought he pondered. He had not known Vernon long, but he felt one could

trust him.

"I met a girl on board the train," he said. "She was keen about getting

away from Shillito."

"Why did she want to get away?"

"I don't know. Looked as if she was afraid of him. When I first saw her

she was on the car platform and I reckoned she was bracing herself to

jump off. Since we were running across a trestle, I pulled her from the

steps. That's how the thing began."

"But it didn't stop just then?"

"It stopped soon afterwards," Lister replied. "She wanted to get off and

go East; the train was bound West, but we were held up at a side-track,

and I put her on board a gravel train locomotive."

"Then she went East!" said Vernon thoughtfully, and studied the other.

Lister sat with his head thrown back and the sun on his brown face. His

look was calm and frank; his careless pose brought out the lines of his

thin but muscular figure. Vernon felt he was honest; he knew Lister's

type.

"She went off on board our construction locomotive," Lister replied.

"But I don't see yet! Why did you meddle? Why did she give you her

confidence?"

"She didn't give me her confidence," Lister said, and smiled. "She

wanted to get away and I helped. That's all. It's obvious I wasn't out

for a romantic adventure, because I put her off the train."

Vernon nodded. Lister's argument was sound; besides, he did not look

like a philanderer.

"Then you don't know who she is?"

"I don't know. She didn't put me wise and my business was not to bother

her."

"What was she like? Did you guess her age? How was she dressed?"

Lister lighted a fresh cigarette. Vernon's keenness rather puzzled him,

but he thought he had told the fellow enough. In fact, he doubted if the

girl would approve his frankness. He was not going to state that he had

met her at Montreal. Anyhow, not yet. If Vernon talked about the thing

again and gave proper grounds for his curiosity, he might perhaps

satisfy him.

"She was young," he answered vaguely. "Attractive, something of a

looker, I think. I don't know much about women's clothes."

"Oh, well!" said Vernon. "You helped her off and Shillito found this out

and got after you?"

"He got after me when he saw he was corraled," Lister replied, and

narrated his struggle on the platform. He was now willing to tell Vernon

all he wanted to know, but saw the other's interest was not keen and

they presently began to talk about something else.

"What are you going to do in the Old Country?" Vernon asked.

"I have no plans. For a time, I guess I'll loaf and look about. Then I

want to see my father's folks, whom I haven't met."

"Your father was English?"

"Why, yes," said Lister, smiling. "If you reckon up, you'll find a big

proportion of the staunchest Canadians' parents came from the Old

Country. In fact, I sometimes feel Canada belongs to us and the boys of

the sourdough stock. Between us we have given the country its stamp and

made it a land for white men; but we'll soon be forced to make good our

claim. If we're slack, we'll be snowed under by folks from Eastern

Europe whose rules and habits are not ours."

Vernon nodded. "It's a problem we have got to solve. But are you going

back to the railroad when you have looked about?"

"I'm going back some time, but, now I have pulled out, I want to see all

I can. I'd like to look at Europe, Egypt and India."

"Wandering around costs something," Vernon remarked.

"That is so. My wad's small, but if I've not had enough when it's used

up, I'll look for a job. If nothing else is doing, I'll go to sea."

Vernon's smile was sympathetic and he looked ahead, over the dipping

forecastle to the far horizon. The sea shone with reflected light and an

iceberg glimmered against the blue. He felt the measured throb of

engines and the ship leap forward. Vernon was a young Canadian and

sprang from pioneering stock. The vague distance called; he felt the

lure of going somewhere.

"If the thing was possible, I'd go with you," he said. "All the same,

I'm tied to business and the old man can't pull his load alone. My job's

to stick to the traces and help him along. But do you know much about

the sea?"

"I was engineer on board a Pacific coasting boat and a wheat barge on

the Lakes."

"Well," said Vernon thoughtfully, "I know an English shipping boss who

might help you get a berth. I'd rather like you to meet him, but we'll

talk about this again. Now let's join those fellows at deck-quoits."

Their friendship ripened, but it was not until the last day of the

voyage Vernon said something more about the English ship-owner.

_Flaminian_ was steaming across the Irish Sea, with the high blue hills

of Mourne astern and the Manx rocks ahead. Vernon lounged on the

saloon-deck and his face was thoughtful as he looked across the shining

water.

"We'll make Liverpool soon after dark, and if I can get the train I

want, I'll pull out right then," he said. "You allowed you might try a

run on board an English ship before you went back?"

"It's possible," said Lister. "Depends on how my wad holds out and on

somebody's being willing to give me a post."

Vernon nodded. "That's where I'm leading." He stopped, and Lister

wondered why he pondered. The thing did not seem worth the thought his

companion gave it.

"I reckon you don't know Cartwright of the Independent Freighters, but

he could put you wise about getting a ship," Vernon resumed. "I'm

stopping for a week or two at his country house. The freighters are

small boats, but Cartwright's worth knowing; in fact, to know him is

something of an education. In the West we're pretty keen business men,

and I've put across some smart deals at the Winnipeg Board of Trade, but

I'll admit Cartwright would beat me every time. Where do you mean to

locate?"

Lister said he was going to the neighborhood of a small country town in

the North of England, and was puzzled by Vernon's start.

"That fixes it! The thing's strangely lucky. Cartwright's country house

is not far off. You had better come along by my train. Soon after I

arrive I'll get Mrs. Cartwright to ask you across."

"I mustn't bother your friends," said Lister. "Besides, I really don't

know if I want to go to sea."

"All the same, you'll come over to Carrock. You ought to know Cartwright

and I reckon he'll like to know you. I have a notion you and he would

make a good team."

Lister wondered whether Vernon had an object for urging him to meet his

friend, but this looked ridiculous.

"What's Cartwright like?" he asked carelessly.

"My notion is, Cartwright's unique. You imagine he's something of a

highbrow Englishman, rather formal and polite, but he has an eye like a

fish-hawk's and his orders go. Hair and mustache white; you don't know

if his clothes are old or new, but you feel they're exactly what he

ought to wear. That's Cartwright, so to speak, on top; but when you meet

him you want to remember you're not up against a Canadian. We're a

straight type. When we're tough, we're very tough all the time; when

we're cultivated, you can see the polish shine. In the Old Country it's

harder to fix where folks belong."

"You imply that you have got to know Cartwright before you fix him?"

Vernon laughed. "I haven't quite fixed him yet. At one time he's a sober

gentleman of the stiff old school; at another he's as rough as the

roughest hobo I've met in the West. I reckon he'd beat a business crook

at the other's smartest trick, but if you're out for a straight deal,

you'll find Cartwright straight."

He went off to change some money and Lister went to his cabin and began

to pack his trunk. When he came up they had passed the Chicken Rock and

a long bright beam touched the sea astern. In the East, water and sky

faded to dusky blue, but presently a faint light began to blink as if it

beckoned. The light got brighter and gradually drew abeam. The foaming

wake glimmered lividly in the dark, the beat of screws seemed quicker,

and Lister thought the ship was carried forward by a stream of tide.

Other lights began to blink. They stole out of the dark, got bright, and

vanished, and Lister, leaning on the rails, felt they called him on. One

knew them by their colors and measured flashes. They were beacons,

burning on a well-ordered plan to guide the navigator, but he did not

know the plan. In a sense, this was important, and he began to muse.

Now he would soon reach the Old Country, he felt he had made a momentous

plunge. Adventure called, he knew Canada and wanted something fresh, but

he wondered whether this was all. Perhaps the plunge had, so to speak,

not been a thoughtless caprice. In a sense, things had led up to it and

made it logical. For example, it might not have been for nothing he met

the girl on the train and got hurt. His hurt had kept him at Winnipeg

and stopping there had roused his discontent. Then he had met Vernon,

who wanted him to know the English ship-owner. It was possible these

things were like the flashes that leaped out of the dark. He would know

where they pointed when the journey was over. Then Lister smiled and

knocked out his pipe.

When he went on deck again some time afterwards the ship was steering

for a gap between two rows of twinkling lights. They ran on, closing on

each other, like electric lamps in a long street, and in front the sky

shone with a dull red glow. It was the glimmer of a great port, they

were entering the Mersey, and he went off to get up his luggage.

PART II--THE RECKONING

CHAPTER I

VERNON'S PLOT

Lister occupied the end of a slate-flag bench on the lawn at Carrock,

Mrs. Cartwright's house in Rannerdale. Rannerdale slopes to a lake in

the North Country, and the old house stands among trees and rocks in a

sheltered hollow. The sun shone on its lichened front, where a creeper

was going red; in the background birches with silver stems and leaves

like showers of gold gleamed against somber firs. Across the lawn and

winding road, the tranquil lake reflected bordering woods; and then long

mountain slopes that faded from yellow and green to purple closed the

view.

While Lister waited for the tea Mrs. Cartwright had given him to cool he

felt the charm of house and dale was strong. Perhaps it owed something

to the play of soft light and shade, for, as a rule, in Canada all was

sharply cut. The English landscape had a strange elusive beauty that

gripped one hard, and melted as the fleecy clouds rolled by. When the

light came back color and line were as beautiful but not the same.

There was no grass in Canada like the sweep of smooth English turf, and

Lister had not thought a house could give the sense of ancient calm one

got at Carrock. Since his boyhood he had not known a home; his resting

place had been a shack at a noisy construction camp, a room at a crowded

cheap hotel, and a berth beside a steamer's rattling engines. Then the

shining silver on the tea-table was something new; he marked its beauty

of line, and the blue and gold and brown pattern on the delicate china

he was almost afraid to touch. In fact, all at Carrock was marked by a

strange refinement and quiet charm.

He liked his hosts. Mrs. Cartwright was large, rather fat, and placid,

but he felt the house and all it stood for were hers by rightful

inheritance. Her son and daughter were not like that. Lister thought

they had cultivated their well-bred serenity and by doing so had

cultivated out some virile qualities of human nature. Grace Hyslop had

beauty, but not much charm; Lister thought her cold, and imagined her

prejudices were strong and conventional. Mortimer's talk and manners

were colorlessly correct. Lister did not know yet if Hyslop was a prig

or not.

Cartwright was frankly puzzling. He looked like a sober country

gentleman, and this was not the type Lister had thought to meet. His

clothes were fastidiously good, his voice had a level, restrained note,

but his eye was like a hawk's, as Vernon had said. Now and then one saw

a twinkle of ironical amusement and some of his movements were quick and

vigorous. Lister thought Cartwright's blood was red.

Vernon, lounging at the opposite end of the bench, talked about a day

Hyslop and he had spent upon the rocks, and rather struck a foreign

note. He had not Hyslop's graceful languidness; he looked alert and

highly-strung. His thin face was too grave for Carrock and his glance

too quick. Lister, listening to his remarks, was surprised to note that

Hyslop was a bold mountaineer.

"Oh, well," he said, with a deprecatory smile, when Vernon stopped,

"this small group of mountains is all the wild belt we have got, and you

like to find a stranger keen about your favorite sport. Then your

keenness was flattering. In your country, with its lonely woods and

rivers running to the North, you have a field for strenuous sport and

adventure."

"The woods pull," Vernon agreed. "All the same, I'm a business man.

Betting at the Board of Trade is my proper job and I've got to be

satisfied with a week at a fishing camp now and then. Adventure is for

the pioneers, lumber men and railroad builders like my friend."

Lister looked up. He did not see why Vernon talked about him.

"My adventures don't count for much," he said. "Sometimes a car went

into a muskeg and we had to hustle to dig her out. Sometimes the boys

made trouble about their pay. Railroad building is often dull."

"I don't know if we're all modest in Canada, but my partner is," Vernon

observed. "If you want a romantic tale, persuade him to tell you how he

got the mark on his head."

"Oh shucks!" said Lister. "I had sooner you had cut that out." He turned

to the others apologetically. "It was a dispute with a fellow on board a

train who threw me down the steps. I don't want to bore you with the

tale."

"The man was the famous crook, Shillito," Vernon remarked.

Cartwright lifted his head and looked at Vernon hard. Then he looked at

Lister, who felt embarrassed and angry. He saw Grace and Mrs. Cartwright

were curious and thought Hyslop's glance got keen.

"If it will not bother Mr. Lister, we would like to hear his narrative,"

said Cartwright quietly, but Lister got a hint of command.

He narrated his adventure on the train, and although he tried to rob the

story of its romance, was surprised when he stopped for a moment. Vernon

was carelessly lighting a cigarette, but Lister saw his carelessness was

forced. When he got a light he crossed the grass, as if he meant to

throw the match over the hedge. Lister thought Cartwright watched Harry

with dry amusement. Mrs. Cartwright's look was obviously disturbed, but

she had not altogether lost her calm. One felt her calm was part of her,

but the Hyslops' was cultivated. Lister imagined it cost them something

to use control.

"Go on," said Cartwright, rather sharply.

Lister resumed, but presently Cartwright stopped him.

"You imagined the girl was afraid of Shillito! What were your grounds?"

"She was disturbed and declared she must get off the train. I think she

meant to jump off, although we were going fast. Then she asked me if the

conductor could be bribed to stop."

"Perhaps we can take it for granted she wanted to get away from

somebody. Why did you surmise the man was Shillito?"

"He came through the car afterwards, as if he tried to find the girl,

and gave me a keen glance. When he came back I thought him angry and

disappointed. By and by I had better grounds for imagining he suspected

I had helped her."

Cartwright pondered, but Lister did not think he doubted. It rather

looked as if he weighed something carefully. The lines on his face got

deeper and his look was thoughtful.

"I understand the girl did not give you her name," he said. "What was

she like? How was she dressed?"

Lister was rather surprised to find he could not answer satisfactorily.

It was not the girl's physical qualities but her emotions he had marked.

He remembered the pluck with which she had struggled against the fear

she obviously felt, her impulsive trust when he offered help, and her

relief when she got into the locomotive cab. Although he had studied her

at Montreal, it was her effort to play a part that impressed him most.

"She was young, and I think attractive," he replied. "She wore a knitted

cap and a kind of jersey a girl might use for boating. I thought she

came from a summer camp."

Cartwright's face was inscrutable, but Lister saw the others' interest

was keen. Mrs. Cartwright's eyes were fixed on him and he got a hint of

suspense. Although Grace was very quiet, a touch of color had come to

her skin, as if she felt humiliated. Mortimer's pose was stiff and his

control over done. Then Cartwright turned to his step-daughter.

"Have you told Jones about the box of plants for Liverpool?"

Grace's look indicated that she did not want to go, but Cartwright's

glance was insistent and she got up. Lister looked about and saw Vernon

had not come back. He was studying the plants in a border across the

lawn. When Grace had gone Cartwright asked:

"Can you remember the evening of the month and the time when you first

saw the girl?"

Lister fixed the date and added: "It was nearly ten o'clock. The porter

had just gone through the car and when he said my berth was ready I

looked at my watch. He went to the next Pullman, and I thought he was

getting busy late."

Cartwright nodded and Mortimer glanced at him sharply, but next moment

looked imperturbable. Mrs. Cartwright's relief, however, was obvious.

Her face had become animated and her hands trembled.

"Thank you," said Cartwright. "Go on."

Lister narrated his putting the girl on board the gravel train and Mrs.

Cartwright interrupted.

"Do you know if she had money?"

"She had some. Enough to buy a ticket East."

"It's strange," said Mrs. Cartwright, and then exclaimed: "You mean you

gave her some?"

"Oh, well," said Lister awkwardly, "I'd seen her look at her purse and

frown, and as I helped her up the locomotive steps I pushed a few bills

into her hand. I don't think she knew they were paper money. She was

highly-strung and anxious to get off before Shillito came along."

Mrs. Cartwright gave him a look that moved him. Her eyes shone and he

knew she was his friend.

"The poor girl was strangely lucky when she met you," she said.

Lister resumed his narrative, but it was plain the climax had passed.

The others' interest was now polite, and he went on as fast as possible.

He had begun to see a light and wanted to finish and get away. He did

not, however, see that while he told his artless tale he had drawn his

character. When he stopped Cartwright said:

"Then you did not know her name?"

"I don't know it yet," said Lister, as coolly as he could, but got

embarrassed when he saw Cartwright's smile.

"You don't imagine Shillito rejoined her afterwards?"

"No," said Lister firmly, "I think it's impossible. The gravel train was

going East, and when the police boarded the cars we had run some

distance West." He stopped for a moment, because he saw he was very

dull. If his supposition were correct, there was something the others

ought to know. "Besides," he resumed, "I met her not long since at

Montreal."

"At Montreal!" Mrs. Cartwright exclaimed.

"At a shop where they sold _souvenirs_," Lister replied. "I didn't

expect to meet her; I went in to buy some enameled things. It was a

pretty good shop and the hotel clerk declared the people were all right.

She knew me and we went to a tea-room. She left me at the door, and I

think that's all."

He got up. "I don't know if I have bored you, but I felt you wanted me

to talk. Now I must get off, and I want to see Harry before I go."

"Mr. Vernon does not seem to be about," Cartwright remarked with some

dryness. "I'll go to the gate with you."

Mrs. Cartwright gave Lister her hand and her glance was very kind. "You

will come back? So long as you stop here I hope you will feel our house

is open to you."

Hyslop got up, but Cartwright stopped him with a sign. He was quiet

while they crossed the lawn, but when they reached the wood by the road

he said, "I imagine you know we owe you much. After a time, your efforts

to use some tact were rather obvious. Well, the girl you helped is my

step-daughter."

"At the beginning, I did not know this," Lister declared.

"It was plain," said Cartwright, "Well, I agree with her mother--Barbara

was very lucky when she met you, but since you look embarrassed, we'll

let this go. Did she repay your loan?"

"She wanted to pay me," said Lister. "I refused."

"Why?" Cartwright asked, looking at him hard.

Lister hesitated, "For one thing, I didn't know the sum. Then I knew her

wages were not high. You ought to see I couldn't take the money."

"You ought to have taken the money, for the girl's sake."

"Oh," said Lister, "I think she knew I didn't refuse because I wanted

her to feel she owed me something."

"It's possible she did know," said Cartwright dryly. "You must try to

remember the sum when you come again. Now I want the name of the shop at

Montreal."

Lister told him and added: "You mean to write to Miss Hyslop?"

Cartwright smiled. "I'm going across as soon as possible to bring my

step-daughter home."