 Book 1, Chapter 8, of Corporal Cameron of the Northwest Mounted Police, a tale of the MacLeod Trail. This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Kay Hand. Corporal Cameron of the Northwest Mounted Police. Book 1, Chapter 8. Will he come back? It was the custom in Dr. Dunn's household that immediately after dinner his youngest son would spend half an hour in the study with his father. It was a time for confidences. During this half hour, father and son met as nearly as possible on equal terms, discussing as friends might, the events of the day or the plans for the morrow, schoolwork or athletics, the latest book or the newest joke, and sometimes the talk turned upon the reading at evening prayers. This night the story had been one of rare beauty and of absorbing interest. The story, vis, of that idyllic scene on the shore of Tiberius where the airing disciple was fully restored to his place in the ranks of the faithful, as he had been restored some weeks before to his place in the confidence of his master. That was a fine story, Robb, began Dr. Dunn. That it was, said Robb gravely, it was fine for Peter to get back again. Just so, replied his father, you see, when a man once turns his back on his best friend, he is never right till he gets back again. Yes, I know, said Robb gravely. For a time he sat with a shadow of sadness and anxiety on his young face. It is terrible, he exclaimed. Terrible? inquired the doctor. Oh, yes, you mean Peter's fall? Yes, that was a terrible thing, to be untrue to our master and faithless to our best friend. But he did not mean to, dad, said Robb quickly, as if springing to the fallen disciple's defense. He forgot just for a moment and was awfully sorry afterwards. Yes, truly, said his father, and that was the first step back. For a few moments Robb remained silent, his face sad and troubled. Man, it must be terrible! At length he said more to himself than to his father. The doctor looked closely at the little lad. The eager, sensitive face, usually so radiant, was now clouded and sad. What is it, Robb? Is it something you can tell me? Just his father in a tone of friendly kindness. Robb moved closer to him. The father waited in silence. He knew better than to force an unwilling confidence. At length the lad, with an obvious effort at self-command, said, It is to-morrow, daddy, that Cameron, that Mr. Cameron is going away. To-morrow? So it is, and you will be very sorry, Robb. But of course he will come back. Oh, dad! cried Robb, coming quite close to his father. It isn't that. It isn't that. His father waited. He did not understand his boy's trouble, and so he wisely refrained from uttering word that might hinder, rather than help. At length, with a sudden effort, Robb asked in a low, hurried voice. Do you think, dad, he has got back? said his father. Oh, I see. Why, my boy, what do you know of it? Did you know there was a letter from a man named Potts that completely clears your friend of all crime? Is there? asked the boy quickly. Man, that is fine. But I always knew he could not do anything really bad. I mean anything that the police could touch him for. But it is not that, dad. I have heard Jack say he used to be different when he came down first, and now sometimes he— The lad's voice fell silent. He could not bring himself to accuse his hero of any evil. His father drew him close to his side. You mean that he has fallen into bad ways, drink, and things like that? The boy hung his head. He was keenly ashamed for his friend. After a few moments silence he said, and he is going away to Canada to-morrow. And I wonder, dad, if he has got back. It would be terrible. Oh, dad, all alone and away from— The boy's voice sank to a whisper, and a rush of tears filled his eyes. I see what you mean, my boy. You mean it would be terrible for him to be in that far land and away from that friend we know and love best. The lad looked at his father through his tears and nodded his head. And for some moments there was silence between them. If the truth must be told, Dr. Dunn felt himself keenly rebuked by his little son's words. Amid the multitude of his responsibilities, the responsibility for his son's best friend he had hardly realized. I am glad that you spoke of it, Rob. I am glad that you spoke of it. Something will be done. It is not, after all, in our hands. Still, we must stand ready to help. Good night, my boy. And remember, it is always good to hurry back to our best friend, if ever we get away from him. The boy put his arms around his father's neck and kissed him good night. Then, kissing him again, he whispered, Thank you, daddy. And from the relief in his tone the father recognized that upon him the lad had laid all the burden of his solicitude for his friend. Later in the evening, when his elder son came home, the father called him in and frankly gave him the substance of the conversation of the earlier part of the evening. Jack laughed, somewhat uneasily. Oh, Rob is an awfully religious little beggar. Painfully so, I think, sometimes. You know what I mean, sir, he added, noticing the look on his father's face. I am not sure that I do, Jack, said his father, but I want to tell you that as far as I am concerned I felt distinctly rebuked at the little chap's anxiety for his friend in a matter of such vital import. His is a truly religious little soul, as you say, but I wonder if his type is not more nearly like the normal than his ours. Certainly if reality, simplicity, sincerity are the qualities of true religious feeling, and these I believe are the qualities emphasized by the master himself, then it may indeed be that the boy's type is nearer the ideal than ours. At this point Mrs. Dunn entered the room. Anything private? She inquired with a bright smile at her husband. Not at all. Come in! said Dr. Dunn, and he proceeded to repeat the conversation with his younger son and his own recent comment thereupon. I am convinced, he added, that there is a profundity of meaning in those words, whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child, he shall not enter therein, that we have not yet fathomed. I suspect Wordsworth is not far astray when he suggests that with the passing years we grow away from the simplicity of our faith and the clearness of our vision. There is no doubt that to rob Jesus is as real as I am. There is no doubt of that, said his wife quickly. Not only as real, but quite as dear, indeed, dearer. I shall never forget the shock I received when I heard him one day as a wee, wee boy, classifying the objects of his affection. I remember the ascending scale was, I loved Jack and Daddy just the same, then Mother, then Jesus. It was always in the highest place, Jesus, and I believe that the scale is the same today, unless Jack, she added with a smile at her son, has moved to his mother's place. Not much fear of that, Mother, said Jack, but I should not be surprised if you are quite right about the little chap. He is a queer little beggar. There you are again, Jack, said his father, and it is upon that point I was inclined to take issue with you when your mother entered. I think I shall leave you, said the mother. I am rather tired and so I shall bid you good night. Yes, said the father, when they had seated themselves again, the very fact that to you, and to me for that matter, Rob's attitude of mind should seem peculiar raises the issue. What is the normal type of Christian faith? Is it not marked by the simplicity and completeness of the child's? And yet, sir, replied Jack, that simplicity and completeness is the result of inexperience. Surely the ideal faith is not that which ignores the facts and experiences of life. Not exactly, replied the father, yet I am not sure, but after all, the perfect love which casteth out fear is one which ignores the experiences of life or rather classifies them in a larger category. That is, it refuses to be disturbed by life's experiences because among those experiences there is a place for the enlarged horizon, the clearer vision. But I am not arguing about this matter. I rather wish to make a confession and enlist your aid. Frankly, the boy's words gave me an uneasy sense of failure in my duty to this young man, or perhaps I should say my privilege. And really, it is no wonder. Here is this little chap actually carrying every day a load of intense concern for our friend as to whether, as he puts it himself, he has come back. And after all, Jack, I wonder if this should not have been more open upon our minds. The young man I take it, since his mother's death, has little in his home life to inspire him with religious faith and feeling. If she had been alive, one would not feel the same responsibility. She was a singularly saintly woman. You are quite right, sir, said Jack, quickly. And I suspect you rather mean that I am the one that should feel condemned. Not at all. Not at all, Jack. I am thinking, as every man must, of my own responsibility, though. Doubtless you have yours as well. Of course I know quite well you have stuck by him splendidly in his fight for a clean and self-controlled life. But one wonders whether there is not something more. There is, sir, replied his son quickly. There undoubtedly is. But though I have no hesitation in speaking to men down in the settlement about these things, you know still, somehow, to a man of your own class and to a personal friend, one hesitates. One shrinks from what seems like assuming an attitude of superiority. I appreciate that, said his father. But yet one wonders to what extent this shrinking is due to a real sense of one's own imperfections and to what extent it is due to an unwillingness to risk criticism, even from ourselves, in a loyal attempt to serve the master and his cause. And besides that, one wonders whether, from any cause, one should hesitate to do the truly kind and Christian thing to one's friend. I mean, you value your religion. Or, to put it personally, as Rob would, you would esteem as your chief possession your knowledge of the Christ as friend and savior. Do not loyalty to him and friendship require that you share that possession with your dearest friend? I know what you mean, sir, said Jack earnestly. I shall think it over. But don't you think a word from you, sir? His father looked at his son with a curious smile. Oh, I know what you are thinking, said his son. But I assure you, it is not quite a case of funk. Do you know, Jack, said his father earnestly, we make our religion far too unreal. A thing either of forms remote from life or a thing of individualistic emotion divorced from responsibility. One thing history reveals that the early propaganda for the faith was entirely unprofessional. It was from friend to friend, from man to man. It was horizontal rather than perpendicular. Well, I shall think it over, said Jack. Do you know, said his father, that I have the feeling of having accepted from Rob responsibility for our utmost endeavor to bring it about, that, as Rob puts it, somehow he shall get back? It was a full twenty minutes before train time when Rob, torn with anxiety lest they should be late, marched his brother on to the railway platform to wait for the Camerons who were to arrive from the north. Up and down they paraded, done turning over in his mind the conversation of the night before, Rob breaking away every three minutes to consult the clock and the booking clerk at the wicket. Will he come to us this afternoon, Jack? Do you think? inquired the boy. Don't know. He turned down a football lunch. He has his sister and his father with him. His sister could come with him, argued the boy. What about his father? Rob had been close enough to events to know that the captain constituted something of a difficulty in the situation. Well, won't he have business to attend to? His brother laughed. Good idea, Rob, let us hope so. At any rate, we will do our best to get Cameron and his sister to come to us. We want them, don't we? We do that, said the boy fervently. Only I am sure something will happen. There, he exclaimed a moment later in a tone of disappointment and disgust, I just knew it. There is Miss Brody and someone else. They will get after him, I know. So it is, said Dunn, with a not altogether successful attempt at surprise. Aw, you knew, said Rob reproachfully. Well, I kind of thought she might turn up, said his brother with an air of a convicted criminal. You know she is quite a friend of Cameron's. But what is Sir Archibald here for? They will just get him, I know, said Rob gloomily, as he followed his brother to meet Miss Brody and her uncle. We're here, cried that young lady, to join in the demonstration to the hero. And my uncle, being somewhat conscient, stricken of his tardy and unwilling acceptance of our superior judgment in the recent famous case, has come to make such reparation as he can. What a piece of impertinence. Don't listen to her, sir, cried Sir Archibald, greeting Dunn warmly and with the respect to do an international captain. The truth is I have a letter here for him to a business friend in Montreal, which may be of service. Of course I may say to you that I am more than delighted that this letter of pots has quite clear the young man, that he goes to the new country with reputation unstained. I am greatly delighted, greatly delighted, and I wish the opportunity to say so. Indeed we are all delighted, replied Dunn cordially, though of course I never could bring myself to believe him guilty of crime. While on the strength of the judgment of yourself, and I must confess of this young person here, I made my decision. Well, cried Miss Brody, I gave you my opinion because it was my opinion, but I confess at times I had my own doubts. Here she paused abruptly, arrested by the look on young Robb's face. It was a look of surprise, grief, and horror. That is to say, continued Miss Brody hastily, answering the look and recognizing that her high place in Robb's regard was in peril. The whole thing was a mystery, was impossible to solve, I mean. She continued, stumbling along. His own attitude was so very uncertain and so unsatisfactory. If he had only been able to say clearly I am not guilty, it would have been different. I mean, of course I don't believe him guilty. Don't look at me like that, Robb, I won't have it. But was it not clever of that dear Mr. Ray to extract that letter from the wretched pots? There's the train, cried Dunn. Here, Robb, you stay here with me. Where has the young rascal gone? Look! Oh, look! Cried Miss Brody, clutching at Dunn's arm, her eyes wide with terror. There, before their horrified eyes was young Robb, hanging on to the window, out of which his friend Cameron was leaning, and racing madly with the swiftly moving train, in momentary danger of being dragged under its wheels. With a cry Dunn rushed forward. Merciful heavens! cried Miss Brody. Oh, he is gone! A porter, standing with his back towards the racing boy, had knocked his feet from under him. But as he fell, a strong hand grabbed him, and dragged him to safety through the window. Pale and shaking, the three friends waited for the car door to be opened. And as Robb issued in triumphant possession of his friend, Miss Brody rushed at him, and seizing him and her strong grasp, cried. You heartless young rascal, you nearly killed me, not to speak of yourself. Here, she continued, throwing her arms about him, and giving him a loud smack, take that for your punishment. Do you hear you nearly killed me? I had a vision of your mangled form ground up between the wheels and the platform. Hold on, you can't get away from me. I have a mind to give you another. Oh, Miss Brody, please, pleaded Cameron, coming forward to Robb's rescue. I assure you I was partly to blame. It is only fair I should share his punishment. Indeed, cried Miss Brody, the blood coming back into her cheeks that had been white enough a moment before. If it were not for your size and your looks, I should treat you exactly the same, though not with the same intent, as our friend Mr. Ray would say. You did that splendidly. Alas for my size, groaned Cameron. He was in great spirits. And alas for my ugly fizz. Who said ugly? replied Miss Brody. But I won't rise to your bait. May I introduce you to my uncle, Sir Archibald Brody, who has a little business with you? Ah, Mr. Cameron, said that gentleman, that was extremely well done. Indeed, I can hardly get back my nerve. Might have been an ugly accident. By the way, sir, taking Cameron aside, just a moment, you are on your way to Canada? I have a letter which I thought might be of service to you. It is to a business friend of mine, a banker in Montreal, Mr. James Richie. You will find him a good man to know, and I fancy glad to serve any friend of mine. On hearing Sir Archibald's name, Cameron's manner became distinctly haughty, and he was on the point of declining the letter when Sir Archibald, who was quick to observe his manner, took him by the arm and led him somewhat further away. Now, sir, there is a little matter I wish to speak of, if you will permit. Indeed, I came specially to say how delighted I am that the recent little unpleasantness had been removed. Of course, you understand my responsibility to the bank rendered a certain course of action imperative, however repugnant. But believe me, I am truly delighted to find that my decision to withdraw the action has been entirely justified by events. Delighted, sir, delighted, and much more since I have seen you. Before the overflowing kindliness of Sir Archibald's voice and manner, Cameron's hauteur vanished like morning mist before the rising sun. I thank you, Sir Archibald," he said with dignity. Not only for this letter, but especially for your good opinion. Very good, very good. The letter will, I hope, be useful, replied Sir Archibald. And as for my opinion, I am glad to find not only that it is well founded, but that it appears to be shared by most of this company here. Now we must get back to your party. But let me say again, I am truly glad to have come to know you. End of Book One, Chapter Eight. Book Two, Chapter One of Corporal Cameron of the Northwest Mounted Police, a tale of the McLeod Trail. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Kay Hand. Corporal Cameron of the Northwest Mounted Police. Book Two, Chapter One. Ho, for the open. Mr. James Ritchie, manager of the Bank of Montreal, glanced from the letter in his hand to the young man who had just given it to him. Ah, you have just arrived from the old land, he said, a smile of genial welcome illuminating his handsome face. I am pleased to hear from my old friend, Sir Archibald Brody, and pleased to welcome any friend of his to Canada. So saying, with fine old-time courtesy, the banker rose to a splendid height of six feet two and shook his visitor warmly by the hand. Your name is? Cameron, sir, said the young man. Yes, I see, Mr. Allen Cameron, uh-huh, with his eyes on the letter, old and distinguished family, exactly so. Now then, Mr. Cameron, I hope we shall be able to do something for you, both for the sake of my old friend, Sir Archibald, and indeed for your own sake, said the banker with a glance of approval at Cameron's upright form. Sit down, sir, sit down. Now business is my first motto, what can I do for you? Well, first of all, said Cameron with a laugh, I wish to make a deposit. I have a draft of one hundred pounds here, which I should like to place in your care. Very well, sir, said the banker, touching a button. My young man will attend to that. Now then, when the business had been transacted, what are your plans, Mr. Cameron? Thirty-five years ago I came to Montreal, a young man, from Scotland, like yourself, and it was a lonely day for me when I reached this city, the loneliest in my life, and so my heart warms to the stranger from the old land. Yes, continued Mr. Richie in a reminiscent tone, I remember well. I hired his errand boy and general factotum to a small grocer down near the market. Montreal was a small city then with wretched streets. They're bad enough yet, and poor buildings. Everything was slow and backward. There have been mighty changes since, but here we are. Now what are your plans? I am afraid they are of the vaguest kind, said Cameron. I want something to do. What sort of thing? I mean, what has been the line of your training? I'm afraid my training has been defective. I've passed through Edinburgh Academy, also the university, with the exception of my last year. But I am willing to take anything. Ah, said the banker, thoughtfully. No office training, eh? No, sir. That is, if you accept a brief period of three or four months in the law office of our family solicitor. Law, eh? I have it. Denman's your man. I shall give you a letter to Mr. Denman, a lawyer friend of mine. I shall see him personally today, and if you call tomorrow at 10, I hope to have news for you. Meantime, I shall be pleased to have you lunch with me today at the club. One o'clock is the hour. If you would kindly call at the bank, we shall go down together. Cameron expressed his gratitude. By the way, said Mr. Ritchie, where have you put up? At the Royal, said Cameron. Ah, that will do for the present, said Mr. Ritchie. I am sorry our circumstances do not permit of my inviting you to our home. The truth is Mrs. Ritchie is at present out of the city. But we shall find some suitable lodging for you. The Royal is far too expensive a place for a young man with his fortune to make. Cameron spent the day making the acquaintance of the beautiful, quaint, if somewhat squalid, old city of Montreal, and next morning, with a letter of introduction from Mr. Ritchie, presented himself at Mr. Denman's office. Mr. Denman was a man in the young, middle life, athletic of frame, keen of eye, and energetic of manner. His voice was loud and sharp. He welcomed Cameron with brisk heartiness and immediately proceeded to business. Let me see, he began. What is your idea? What kind of job are you after? Indeed, replied Cameron, that is just what I hardly know. Well, what has been your experience? You are a university man, I believe, but have you had any practical training? Do you know office work? No, I've had little training for an office. I was in a law office for part of a year. Ah, familiar with bookkeeping or accounting? I suppose you can't run one of these typewriting machines. In regard to each of these lines of effort, Cameron was forced to confess ignorance. I say, cried Mr. Denman, those old country people seriously annoy me with their inadequate system of education. I am afraid, replied Cameron, the fault is more mine than the systems. Don't know about that, don't know about that, replied Mr. Denman quickly. I have had scores of young men, fine young men too, come to me, public school men, university men, but quite unfit for any practical line of work. Mr. Denman considered for some moments. Let us see, you have done some work in a law office. Now Mr. Denman spoke with some hesitation. I have a place in my own office here, not much in it for the present, but, to tell the truth, interrupted Cameron, I did not make much of the law. In fact, I do not think I am suited for office work. I would prefer something in the open. I had thought of the land. Farming, exclaimed Mr. Denman. Ah, you would I suppose be able to invest something? No, said Cameron, nothing. Denman shook his head. Nothing in it. You would not earn enough to buy a farm about here in 15 years. But I understood, replied Cameron, that further west was cheaper land. Oh, in the far west, yes, but it is a God-forsaken country. I don't know much about it, I confess. I know they are booming town lots all over the land. I believe they have gone quite mad in the business, but from what I hear, the main work in the west, just now is jaw work. The only thing they raise is corner lots. On Cameron's face there fell the gloom of discouragement. One of his fondest dreams was being dispelled. His vision of himself as a wealthy rancher, ranging over square miles of his estate upon a bucking bronco, garbed in the picturesque cowboy dress, began to fade. But there is ranching, I believe, he ventured. Ranching? Oh yes, there is up near the Rockies, but that is out of civilization, out of reach of everything and everybody. That is what I want, sir, exclaimed Cameron. His face once more aglow with eager hope. I went to get away into the open. Mr. Denman did not or could not recognize this as the instinctive cry of the primitive man for a closer fellowship with mother nature. He was keenly practical and impatient with everything that appeared to him to be purely visionary and un-business-like. But, my dear fellow, he said, a ranch means cattle and horses, and cattle and horses means money, unless of course you mean to simply be a cowboy, cow-puncher, I believe, is a correct term. But there is nothing in that, no future, I mean. It is all very well for a little fun if you have a bank account to stand it, although some fellows stand it on someone else's bank account. Not much to their credit, however. There's a young friend of mine out there at present, but from what I can gather, his home correspondence is mainly confined to appeals for remittances from his governor and his chief occupation spending these remittances as speedily as possible. All very well, as I have said for fun, if you can pay the shot. But to play the role of gentle and cowboy while somebody else pays for it is the sort of thing I despise. And so do I, sir, said Cameron. There will be no remittance in my case. Denman glanced at the firm closed lips and the stiffening figure. That is the talk, he exclaimed. No, there is no chance in ranching unless you have capital. As far as I can see, replied Cameron gloomily, everything seems to close up, except to the capitalist, and yet from what I heard at home, situations were open on every hand in this country. Come here, cried Denman, drawing Cameron to the office window. See those doors, pointing to a long line of shops. Every last one is opened to a man who knows his business. See those smokestacks? Every last wheel in those factories is howling for a man who is on to his job. But don't look blue, there is a place for you too. The thing is to find it. What are those long buildings, inquired Cameron pointing towards the waterfront? Those are railroad sheds, or rather, transportation company sheds. They are practically the same thing. I say, what is the matter with trying the transportation company? I know the manager well, the very thing. Try the transportation company. How should I go about it, said Cameron? I mean to say, just what position should I apply for? Position, shouted Denman, when general manager would be good. Then noting the flesh in Cameron's face, he added quickly, pardon me. The thing is to get your foot in somehow, and then wire in, till you are the general manager, by Jove. It can be done, Fleming has done it. Went in as a messenger boy, but Denman paused. There flashed through his mind in the story of Fleming's career, a vision of the half-starved ragged wave who started as messenger boy in the company's offices, and who, by dint of invincible determination and resolute self-denial, fought his way step by step to his present position of control. In contrast, he looked at the young man, born and bred in circles where work is regarded as a calamity, and service wears the badge of social disfranchisement. Fleming had done it under compulsion of the inexorable mistress necessity. But what of this young man? Will we try? He said at length, I shall give you a letter to Mr. Fleming. He sat down to his desk and wrote vigorously. Take this, see what happens. Cameron took the letter, and glancing at the address, read, William Fleming Esquire, general manager, metropolitan transportation and cartage company. Is this a railroad? Asked Cameron. No, but next thing to it. The companies are practically one. The transition from one to the other is easy enough. Let me know how you get on. Goodbye, and I say, cried Mr. Denman, calling Cameron back again from the door. See Mr. Fleming himself. Remember that. And remember, he added with a smile, the position of manager is not vacant just yet, but it will be. I'll give you my word for it when you are ready to take it. Goodbye, buck up. Take what he offers you. Get your teeth in, and never let go. By George, said Denman to himself as the door closed on Cameron, these chaps are the limit. He's got lots of stuff in him, but he has been rendered helpless by their full system. God save us from it. That chap has had things done for him ever since he was first bathed. They have washed him, dressed him, fed him, schooled him, found him positions, stuck him in, and watched that they didn't fall out. And yet by George, he added after a pause, they are running the world today, that is, some of them. Facing which, somewhat puzzling phenomenon, Denman plunged into his work again. Meantime, Cameron was making his way towards the offices of the Metropolitan Transportation and Cartage Company, oppressed with an unacknowledged, but nonetheless real sense of unfitness, and haunted by a depressing sense of the deficiency of his own training and of the training afforded to the young men of his class at home. As he started along, he battled with his depression. True enough, he had no skill in the various accomplishments that Mr. Denman seemed to consider essential. He had no experience in business, he was not fit for office work, office work he loathed. But surely there was some position where his talents would bring him recognition and fortune at last. After all, Mr. Denman was only a colonial, and were the Colonials somewhat narrow view of life. Who was he to criticize the system of training that for generations had been in vogue at home? Had not Wellington said that England's battles were first won on the football fields of Eaton and Rugby? Or something like that? Of course, the training that might fit for a distinguished career in the British Army might not necessarily ensure success on the battlefields of industry and commerce. Yet surely an international player should be able to get somewhere. At this point in his cogitations, Cameron was arrested by a memory that stabbed him like a knife thrust. The awful moment went upon the Inverleith grounds. In the face of the Welsh forward line, he had faltered and lost the international. Should he ever be able to forget the agony of that moment and of the day that followed? And yet he need not have failed. He knew he could play his position with any man in Scotland. He had failed because he was not fit. He set his teeth hard. He would show these bawly Colonials. He would make good. And with his head high, he walked into the somewhat dingy offices of the Metropolitan Transportation and Cartage Company, of which William Fleming Esquire was manager. Opening the door, Cameron found himself confronted by a short counter that blocked the way for the general public into the long room, filled with desks and chairs, and clicking typewriting machines. Cameron had never seen so many of these machines during the whole period of his life. The typewriter began to assume an altogether new importance in his mind. Hitherto it had appeared to him more or less of a Yankee fad, unworthy of the attention of an able-bodied man of average intelligence. In Edinburgh, a writing machine was still something of a newfangled luxury to be apologized for. Mr. Ray would allow no such finicky instrument in his office. Here, however, there were a dozen, more or less, manipulated for the most part by young ladies, and some of them actually by men. On every side, they clicked and banged. It may have been the clicking and banging of these machines that gave to Cameron the sense of rush and hurry so different from the calm, quiet, indignified repose of the only office he had ever known. For some moments, he stood at the counter, waiting attention from one of the many clerks sitting before him. But though one and another occasionally glanced in his direction, his presence seemed to awaken not even a passing curiosity in their minds, much less to suggest the propriety of there inquiring his business. As the moments passed, Cameron became conscious of a feeling of a front. How differently a gentleman was treated by the clerks in the office of Messers, Ray and McPherson were prompt attention in deferential courtesy and a clerk were as essential as a suit of clothes. Gradually, Cameron's head went up and with it, his collar. At length, in his haughtiest tone, he hailed a passing youth. I say, boy, is this Mr. Fleming's office. The clicking and banging of the typewriters and the hum of voices ceased. Everywhere heads were raised and eyes turned curiously upon the haughty stranger. Eh? No letters can represent the nasal intonation of this syllabic inquiry and no words the supreme indifference of the boy's tone. Is Mr. Fleming in? I wish to see him. Cameron's voice was loud and imperious. Say, boys, said a lanky youth with long, cadaverous countenance and sallow, unhealthy complexion, illumined, however, and redeemed to a certain extent by black eyes of extraordinary brilliance. It is the Prince of Wales. The drawing, awestruck tones and the silence that had followed were audible to all in the immediate neighborhood. The titter that swept over the listeners brought the hot blood to Cameron's face. A deliberate insult a Highlander takes with calm. He is prepared to deal with it in a manner affording him entire satisfaction. Ridicule rouses him to fury. For while it touches his pride, it leaves him no opportunity of vengeance. Can you tell me if Mr. Fleming is in? He inquired again of the boy that stood scanning him with calm indifference. The rage that possessed him so vibrated in his tone that the lanky lad drawled again in a warning voice. Slide, Jimmy, slide. Jimmy slid, but towards the counter. Want to see him? He inquired in a tone of brisk impertnence, as if suddenly roused from a reverie. I have a letter for him. All right, hand it over, said Jimmy, fully conscious that he was the hero of more than usual interest. Cameron hesitated, then passed his letter over to Jimmy, who reading the address with deliberate care winked at the lanky boy, and with a jaunty step made towards a door at the farther end of the room. As he passed a desk that stood nearest to the door, a man who during the last few minutes had remained with his head down, apparently so immersed in the papers before him, as to be quite unconscious of his surroundings, suddenly called out, here, boy. Jimmy instantly assumed an air of respectful attention. A letter for Mr. Fleming, he said. Here, replied the man, stretching out his hand. He hurriedly glanced through the letter. Tell him there is no vacancy at present, he said shortly. The boy came back to Cameron with cheerful politeness. The old man's eye was upon him. There is no vacancy at present, he said briefly, and turned away as if his attention were immediately demanded elsewhere by pressing business of the Metropolitan Transportation and Cartage Company. For answer Cameron threw back the leaf of the counter that barred his way, and started up the long room past the staring clerks to the desk next to the door. I wish to see Mr. Fleming, sir, he said, his voice trembling slightly, his face pale, his blue-gray eyes ablaze. The man at the desk looked up from his work. I've just informed you there is no vacancy at present, he said testily, and turned to his papers again as if dismissing the incident. Will you kindly tell me if Mr. Fleming is in, said Cameron in a voice that had grown quite steady. I wish to see him personally. Mr. Fleming cannot see you, I tell you. Almost shouted the man, rising from his desk and revealing himself a short, pudgy figure with flabby face and shining bald head. Can't you understand English? I can't be bothered. What is it, Bates? Someone come to see me. Cameron turned quickly towards the speaker, who had come from the inner room. I have brought you a letter, sir, from Mr. Denman, he said quietly. It is there, pointing to Bates' desk. A letter, let me have it. Why was this not brought to me at once, Mr. Bates? It was an open letter, replied Mr. Bates, and I thought there was no need of troubling you, sir. I told the young man we had no vacancy at present. This is a personal letter, Mr. Bates, and should have been brought to me at once. Why was Mr. Cameron not brought in to me? Mr. Bates murmured something about not wishing to disturb the manager on trivial business. I am the judge of that, Mr. Bates. In future, when any man asks to see me, I desire him to be shown in at once. Mr. Bates began to apologize. That is all that is necessary, Mr. Bates, said the manager, in a voice at once quiet and decisive. Come in, Mr. Cameron. I am very sorry this has happened. Cameron followed him into his office, noting as he passed the red patches of rage on Mr. Bates's pudgy face, and catching a look of fierce hate from his small, piggy eyes. It flashed through his mind that in Mr. Bates at any rate he had found no friend. The result of the interview with Mr. Fleming was an intimation to Mr. Bates that Mr. Cameron was to have a position in the office of the Metropolitan Transportation and Cartage Company, and to begin work the following morning. Very well, sir, replied Mr. Bates. He had apparently quite recovered his equanimity. We shall find Mr. Cameron a desk. We begin work at eight o'clock exactly, he added, turning to Cameron with a pleasant smile. Mr. Fleming accompanied Cameron to the door. Now, a word with you, Mr. Cameron. You may find Mr. Bates a little difficult. He is something of a driver. But remember, he is in charge of this office. I never interfere with his orders. I understand, sir, said Cameron, resolving that at all costs he should obey Mr. Bates' orders, if only to show the general manager he could recognize and appreciate a gentleman when he saw one. Mr. Fleming was putting it mildly when he described Mr. Bates as something of a driver. The whole office staff, from Jimmy the office boy to Jacobs the gentle white-haired clerk whose desk was in the farthest corner of the room, felt the drive. He was not only office manager, but office master as well. His rule was absolute, and from his decisions there was no appeal. The general manager went on the theory that it was a waste of energy to keep a dog and bark himself. In the policy that governed the office, there were two rules which Mr. Bates enforced with the utmost rigidity. The first, namely, that every member of the staff must be in his or her place and ready for work when the clock struck eight. The other, that each member of the staff must work independently of every other member. A man must know his business and go through with it. If he required instructions, he must apply to the office manager. But as a rule, one experience of such application sufficed for the whole period of a clerk's service in the office of the Metropolitan Transportation and Cartage Company. For Mr. Bates was gifted with such an exquisiteness of ironical speech that the whole staff were wont to pause in the rush of their work to listen and to admire when a new member was unhappy enough to require instructions. Their silent admiration acting as a spur to Mr. Bates's ingenuity in the invention of ironical discourse. Of the peculiarities and idiosyncrasies of Mr. Bates's system, however, Cameron was quite ignorant, nor had his experience in the office of Messers Ray and McPherson been suggest to impress upon him the necessity of a close observation of the flight of time. It did not disturb him, therefore, to notice, as he strolled into the offices of the Metropolitan Transportation and Cartage Company the next morning, that the hands of the clock showed six minutes past the hour fixed for the beginning of the day's work. The office staff shivered in an ecstasy of expectance delight. Cameron walked nonchalantly to Mr. Bates's desk, his overcoat on his arm, his cap in his hand. Good morning, sir, he said. Mr. Bates finished writing a sentence, looked up and nodded a brief good morning. We deposit our street attire on the hooks behind the door yonder, he said with empathetic politeness, pointing across the room. Cameron flushed as in passing his desk he observed the police smile on the lanky boy's silo face. You evidently were not aware of the hours of his office. Continued Mr. Bates, when Cameron had returned, we opened at eight o'clock. Oh, said Cameron carelessly, eight? Yes, I thought it was eight. Ah, I see. I believe I am five minutes late. But I suppose I shall catch up before the day is over. Mr. Cameron, replied Mr. Bates earnestly, if you should work for twenty years for the Metropolitan Transportation and Cartage Company, never will you catch up those five minutes. Every minute of your office hours is pledged to the company, and every minute has its own proper work. Your desk is the one next to Mr. Jacobs yonder. Your work is awaiting you there. It is quite simple. The entry of freight recedes upon the ledger. If you wish further instructions apply to me here. You understand? I think so, replied Cameron. I shall do my best too. Very well, that is all, replied Mr. Bates, plunging his head again into his papers. The office staff sank back to work with every expression of disappointment. A moment later, however, their hopes revived. Oh, Mr. Cameron! Called out Mr. Bates. Mr. Cameron returned to his desk. If you should chance to be late again, never mind going to your desk. Just come here for your check. Mr. Bates' tone was kindly even considerate, as if you were anxious to save his clerk unnecessary inconvenience. I beg your pardon, stammered Cameron, astonished. That is all, replied Mr. Bates, his nose once more in his papers. Cameron stood hesitating. His eye fell upon the boy Jimmy, whose face expressed keenest joy. Do you mean, sir, that if I am late you dismiss me forthwith? What? Mr. Bates' tone was so fiercely explosive that it appeared to throw up his head with a violent motion. Cameron repeated his question. Mr. Cameron, my time is valuable, so is yours. I thought that I spoke quite distinctly. Apparently I did not. Let me repeat. In case you should inadvertently be late again, you need not take the trouble to go to your desk. Just come here. Your check will be immediately made out. Saves time, you know, your time and mine, and time you perceive in this office, represents money. Mr. Bates' voice lost none of its kindly interest, but it had grown somewhat in intensity. The last sentence was uttered with his face close to his desk. Cameron stood a moment in uncertainty, gazing at the bald head before him. Then, finding nothing to reply, he turned about to behold Jimmy and his lanky friend executing an animated war pantomime, which they apparently deemed appropriate to the occasion. With face ablaze and teeth set, Cameron went to his desk to the extreme disappointment of Jimmy and the lanky youth, who fell into each other's arms, apparently overcome with grief. For half an hour, the office hummed with the noise of subdued voices and clicking with the rapid fire of the typewriters. Suddenly, through the hum, Mr. Bates' voice was heard, clear, calm, and coldly penetrating. Mr. Jacobs. The old white-haired clerk started up from Cameron's desk and began in a confused and gentle voice to explain that he was merely giving some hints to the new clerk. Mr. Jacobs, said Mr. Bates, I cannot hear you, and you are wasting my time. He was merely showing me how to make these entries, said Cameron. Ah, indeed, thank you, Mr. Cameron, though I believe Mr. Jacobs has not yet lost the power of lucid speech. Mr. Jacobs, I believe you know the rules of this office. Your fine will be one quarter of a day. Thank you, said Mr. Jacobs, hurriedly resuming his desk. And Mr. Cameron, if you will kindly bring your work to me, I shall do my best to enlighten you in regard to the complex duty of entering your freight receipts. An audible snicker ran through the delighted staff. Cameron seized his ledger and the pile of freight bills and started for Mr. Bates' desk, catching out of the corner of his eye the pantomime of Jimmy and the lanky one, which was being rendered with vigor and due caution. For a few moments Cameron stood at the manager's desk, till that gentleman should be disengaged. But Mr. Bates was skilled in the fine art of reducing to abject humility and employee who might give indications of insubordination. Cameron's rage grew with every passing moment. Here is the ledger, sir, he said at length. But Mr. Bates was so completely absorbed in the business of saving time that he made not the slightest pause in his writing, while the redoubled vigor and caution of that pantomime seemed to indicate the approach of a crisis. At length Mr. Bates raised his head. Jimmy and the lanky clerk became at once engrossed in their duties. You have had no experience of this kind of work, Mr. Cameron, inquired Mr. Bates kindly. No, sir, but if you will just explain one or two matters, I think I can. Exactly, this is not, however, a business college. But we shall do our best. A rapturous smile pervaded the office. Mr. Bates was in excellent form. By the way, Mr. Cameron, pardon my neglect, but may I inquire just what department of this work you are familiar with? Oh, general—ah, the position of general manager, however, is filled at present, replied Mr. Bates kindly. Cameron's flush grew deeper, while Jimmy and his friend resigned themselves to an ecstasy of delight. I was going to say, said Cameron, in a tone loud and deliberate, that I had been employed with the general copying work in a writer's office. Writing—fancy! Writing, eh? No use here, said Mr. Bates shortly, for his time was passing. A writer with us means a lawyer, replied Cameron. Why the deuce don't they say so? I answered Mr. Bates impatiently. Well, well—well, well, getting hold of himself again. Here we are allow our solicitors to look after our legal work. Type right! he inquired suddenly. I beg your pardon, replied Cameron. Type right? Do you mean can I use a type writing machine? Yes, yes, for heaven's sakes, yes! No, I cannot. Book keep? No. Good Lord, what have I got! inquired Mr. Bates of himself in a tone, however, particularly audible to those in the immediate neighborhood. Try him licking stamps! Suggested the lanky youth in a voice that while it reached the ears of Jimmy and the others nearby, including Cameron, was inaudible to the manager. Mr. Bates caught the sound, however, and glared about him through his spectacles. Time was being wasted—the supreme offense in that office—and Mr. Bates was fast losing his self-command. Here, he cried suddenly, seizing a sheaf of letters, file these letters. You will be able to do that, I guess. Cameron took the letters, and so, looking helplessly from them to Mr. Bates' bald head, that gentleman's face being already in close proximity to the papers on his desk. Just how do I go about this? I mean, what system do you— Jim, word Mr. Bates throwing down his pen, show this cunt—show Mr. Cameron how to file these letters, just like the blank old country chumps, added Mr. Bates in a lower voice, but loud enough to be distinctly heard. Jim came up with a smile of patronizing pity on his face. It was the smile that touched, to life, the mass of combustible material that had been accumulating for the last hour in Cameron's soul. Instead of following the boy, he turned with a swift movement back to the manager's desk, laid his sheaf of letters down on Mr. Bates' papers, and leaning over the desk toward that gentleman said, Did you mean that remark to apply to me? His voice was very quiet, but Mr. Bates started back with a quick movement from the white face and burning eyes. Here, you get out of this. He cried. Because, continued Cameron, if you did, I must ask you to apologize at once. All smiles vanished from the office staff, even Jimmy's face assumed a serious aspect. Mr. Bates pushed back his chair. Apologize, he sputtered. Get out of this office, do you hear? Be quick, said Cameron, his hands gripping Mr. Bates' desk till it shook. Jimmy, call the policeman. He cried Mr. Bates rising from his chair. He was too slow. Cameron reached swiftly for his collar, and with one fierce wrench, swept Mr. Bates clear over the top of his desk, shook him till his head wobbled dangerously, and flung him crashing across the desk and upon the prostrate form of the lanky youth sitting behind it. Call a policeman. Call a policeman, shouted Mr. Bates, who was struggling meantime with the lanky youth to regain an upright position. Cameron, meanwhile, walked quietly to where his coat and cap hung. Let him somebody hold him, shouted Mr. Bates, hurring towards him. Cameron turned fiercely upon him. Did you want me, sir? He inquired. Mr. Bates arrested himself with such violence that his feet slid from under him, and once more he came sitting upon the floor. Get up, said Cameron, and listen to me. Mr. Bates rose and stood white and trembling. I may not know much about your Canadian ways of business, but I believe I can teach you some old country manners. You have treated me this morning like the despicable bully that you are. Perhaps you will treat the next old country man with the decency that is coming to him, even if he has the misfortune to be your clerk. With these words Cameron turned upon his heel and walked deliberately towards the door. Immediately Jimmy sprang before him and, throwing the door wide open, bowed him out as if he were indeed the Prince of Wales. Thus abruptly ended Cameron's connection with the metropolitan transportation and cartage company. Before the day was done the whole city had heard the tale, which lost nothing in the telling. Next morning Mr. Denman was surprised to have Cameron walk in upon him. �Hello, young man!� shouted the lawyer, �this is a pretty business, upon my soul. Your manner of entry into our commercial life is somewhat forceful. What the deuce do you mean by all of this?� Cameron stood, much abashed. His passion was all gone, and the calm light of afterthought his action of yesterday seemed to boyish. �I am awfully sorry, Mr. Denman� he replied, and I came to apologize to him. �To me� cried Denman, �why to me? I expect if you wish to get a job anywhere in this town you will need to apologize to the chap you knocked down. What�s his name? �Mr. Bates, I think his name is, sir, but of course I cannot apologize to him. �By Joe Roard, Mr. Denman, he ought to have thrown you out of his office. That is what I would have done� Cameron glanced up and down Mr. Denman�s walnut figure. �I don�t think so, sir� he said with a smile. �Why not?� said Mr. Denman, grasping the arms of his office chair. �Because you would not have insulted a stranger in your office who was trying his best to understand his work, and then I should not have tried it on you.� �And why? Well, I think I know a gentleman when I see one.� Mr. Denman was not to be appeased. �Well, let me tell you, young man, it would have been a mighty unhealthy thing for you to have cut up any such shine in this office. I�ve done some rugby in my day, my boy, if you know what that means.� �I have done a little, too� said Cameron, with slightly heightened color. �You have, eh?� �Where?� �The Scottish International, sir.� �By Joe, you don�t tell me� replied Mr. Denman, his tone expressing a new admiration and respect. �When?� �This year?� �No, last year, sir, against Wales.� �By Joe� cried Mr. Denman again. �Give me your hand, boy. Any man who has made the Scottish Internationals is not called to stand any cheek from a cad like Bates.� Mr. Denman shook Cameron warmly by the hand. �Tell us about it� he cried. �It must have been a rare sport. If Bates only knew it, he ought to count it an honor to have been knocked down by a Scottish International.� �I didn�t knock him down, sir� said Cameron, apologetically. �He is only a little chap. I just gave him a bit of a shake. And Cameron proceeded to recount the proceedings of the previous morning.� Mr. Denman was hugely delighted. �Serves the little beast bloody well right� he cried enthusiastically. �But what�s to do now? They will be afraid to let you into their offices in this city.� �I think, sir, I am done with offices. I mean to try the land.� �Farm, eh?� mused Mr. Denman. �Well, so be it. It will probably be safer for you there. Possibly for some others, as well.� End of Book Two, Chapter One. Book Two, Chapter Two of Corporal Cameron of the Northwest Mounted Police. A Tale of the McLeod Trail. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Kay Hand. Corporal Cameron of the Northwest Mounted Police. Book Two, Chapter Two. A Man�s Job. Cameron slept heavily and long into the day, but as he awoke he was conscious of a delightful exhilaration possessing him. For the first time in his life he was a free man, ungoverned and unguided. For four dreary weeks he had waited in Montreal for answers to his inquiries concerning positions with farmers, but apparently the Canadian farmers were not attracted by the qualifications and experience Cameron had to offer. At length he had accepted the advice of Martin�s uncle in Montreal who assured him with local pride that if he desired a position on a farm the district of which the little city of London was the centre was the very garden of Canada. He was glad now to remember that he had declined a letter of introduction. He was now entirely on his own. Neither in this city nor in the country roundabout was there a soul with whom he had the remotest acquaintance. The ways of life led out from his feet all untried, all unknown. Which he should choose he knew not, but with a thrill of exultation he thanked his stars that choosing was his own concern. A feeling of adventure was upon him, a new courage was rising in his heart. The failure that had hitherto dogged his past essays in life did not dampen his confidence, for they had been made under other auspices than his own. He had not fitted into his former positions, but they had not been of his own choosing. He would now find a place for himself and if he failed again he was prepared to accept the responsibility. One bit of philosophy he carried with him from Mr. Denman's farewell interview. Now young man remember, that gentleman had said after he had bidden him farewell, this world is pretty much made already. Success consists in adjustment. Don't try to make your world, adjust yourself to it. Don't fight the world, serve it till you master it. Cameron determined he would study adjustments, his fighting tendency which had brought him little success in the past he would control. At this point the throb of a band broke in upon his meditations and summoned him from his bed. He sprang to the window. It was Circus Day and the morning parade, in all its mingled and cosmopolitan glory, was slowly evolving its animated length to the strains of bands of music. There were bands on horses and bands on chariots, and at the tail of the procession a fearful and wonderful instrument bearing the euphonious and classic name of the Calliope, whose chief function seemed to be that of terrifying the farmer's horses into frantic and determined attempts to escape from these horrid alarms of the city to the peaceful haunts of their rural solitudes. Cameron was still boy enough to hurry through his morning duties in order that he might mix with the crowd and share the perennial delights which a circus affords. The stable yard attached to his hotel was lined three deep with buggies, carriages and lumber wagons which had borne in the crowds of farmers from the country. The hotel was thronged with sturdy red-faced farm lads looking hot and uncomfortable in their unaccustomed Sunday suits, gorgeous in their rainbow ties and rakeish with their hats set at all angles upon their elaborately brushed heads. Older men, too, bearded and stayed, moved with silent and self-respecting dignity through the crowds, gazing with quiet and observant eyes upon the shifting phantasmagoria that filled the circus grounds and the streets nearby. With these, too, there mingled a few of both old and young, who with bacchanalian enthusiasm were swaggering their way through the crowds, each followed by a company of friends good naturedly tolerant or solicitously careful. Cameron's eyes roving over the multitude fell upon a little group that held his attention, the principal figure of which was a tall middle-aged man with a good natured face, adorned with rugged gray chin whisker, who was loudly declaiming to a younger companion with a hard face and very wide awake. My name's Tom Haley. You can't come over me. You bet your life they can't. He ain't no chicken, exclaimed his hard-faced friend. Say, let's liquor up once more before we go to see the elephant. With these, too, followed a boy of some thirteen years, freckle-faced and solemn, slim and wiry of body, who was anxiously striving to drag his father away from one of the drinking booths that dotted the circus grounds and towards the big tent. But the father had been already a too-frequent visitor at the booth to be quite amenable to his son's pleading. He, in a glorious mood of self-appreciation, kept announcing to the public, generally, and to his hard-faced friend in particular. My name's Tom Haley. You can't come over me. Come on, father, pleaded Tim. No, hurry, Timmy and me boy, said his father. The elephants won't run away with the monkeys and the clowns can't get out of the ring. Oh, come on, dad, I'm sure the show's begun. Cheez-it, young feller, said the young man. Your dad's able to take care of himself. Ah, you shut your mouth, replied Tim fiercely. I know what you're sucking round for. Good boy, Tim, laughed his father. You give him one that time. Guess we'll go. So long, Sam, if that's your name. You see, I've just got to take in this year's show this morning with Timmy here, and then we've got some groceries to get for the old woman. See there? He drew a paper from his pocket. Wouldn't dare show up without him. You betcha, eh, Tim? Why, it's her egg and butter money, and she wants value for it, she does. Well, so long, Sam, see you later. And with the triumphant Tim he made for the big tent, leaving a wrathful and disappointed man behind him. Cameron spent the rest of the day partly in taking in the circus and partly in conversing with the farmers who seemed to have taken possession of the town. But in answer to his most diligent and careful inquiries he could hear of no position on a farm for which he could honestly offer himself. The farmers wanted mowers, or cradlers, or good smart turnip-hands, and Cameron sorrowfully had to confess he was none of these. There apparently was no single bit of work in the farmer's life that Cameron felt himself qualified to perform. It was wearing towards evening when Cameron once more came across Tim. He was standing outside the bar-room door, big tears silently coursing down his pale and freckled cheeks. �Hello!� cried Cameron. �What's up, old chap? Where's your dad, and has he got his groceries yet? �No� said Tim, hastily wiping away his tears and looking up, somewhat shyly and sullenly, into Cameron's face. What he saw there apparently won his confidence. �He's in yonder,� he continued, �and I can't get him out. They won't let him come. They're just making him full so he can't do anything, and we ought to be starting for home right away, too.� �Well, let's go in anyway and see what they're doing,� said Cameron cheerfully, to whom the pale, tear-stained face made strong appeal. �They won't let us,� said Tim. �There's a feller there that chucks me out.� �Won't, eh? We'll see about that. Come along.� Cameron entered the bar-room with Tim following and looked about him. The room was crowded to the door with noisy, excited men, many of whom were partially intoxicated. At the bar, too deep, stood a line of men with glasses in their hands, or waiting to be served. In the farthest corner of the room stood Tim's father, considerably the worse of his day's experiences, and lovingly embraced the hard-faced young man, to whom he was at intervals announcing, �My name's Tom Haley. You can't get over me.� As Cameron began to push to the crowd, a man with a very red face, obviously on the watch for Tim, cried out, �Say, Sonny, get out of here. This is no place for you.� Tim drew back, but Cameron, turning to him, said, �Come along, come.� �He's with me,� he added, addressing the man. �He wants his father.� �His father's not here. He left half an hour ago. I told him so.� �You were evidently mistaken, for I see him just across the room there,� said Cameron, quietly. �Oh, is he a friend of yours?� inquired the red-faced man. �No, I don't know him at all, but Tim does, and Tim wants him,� said Cameron, beginning to push his way through the crowd towards the vociferating Haley, who appeared to be on the point of backing up some of his statements with money, where he was flourishing a handful of bills in the face of the young Sam, who apparently was quite willing to accommodate him with the wager. Before Cameron could make his way through the swaying, roaring crowd, the red-faced man slipped from his side, and in a very few moments appeared at a side door near Tom Haley's corner. Almost immediately there was a shuffle, and Haley and his friends disappeared through the side door. �Hello!� cried Cameron, �There's something doing. We'll just slip around there, my boy.� So, saying, he drew Tim back from the crowd and out of the front door, and, hurrying around the house, came upon Sam, the red-faced man, and Haley in a lane leaning past the stable yard. The red-faced man was affectionately urging a bottle upon Haley. �There they are,� said Tim, in an undertone, clutching Cameron's arm. �You get him away, and I'll hitch up.� �All right, Tim,� said Cameron, �I'll get him. They are evidently up to no good.� �What's your name?� said Tim, hurriedly. �Cameron.� �Come on, then,� he cried, dragging Cameron at a run towards his father. �Here, Dad,� he cried. �This is my friend, Mr. Cameron. �Come on home. I'm going to hitch up. We'll be awful late for the chores, and we've got them groceries to get. Come on, Dad.� �Ah, go on. You're a cheeky kid, anyway,� said Sam, giving Tim a shove that nearly sent him on his head. �Hold on there, my man. You leave the boy alone,� said Cameron. �What's your business in this, young feller? �Never mind,� said Cameron. �Tim is a friend of mine, and no one is going to hurt him. Run along, Tim, and get your horses.� �Friend of Tim,� said Haley, in half-drunk in good nature. �Friend of Tim's? Friend of mine,� he added, gravely shaking Cameron by the hand. �Have a drink, young man. You look all right.� Cameron took the bottle, put it to his lips. The liquor burned like fire. �Great Caesar,� he gasped, contriving to let the bottle drop upon a stone. �What do you call that?� �Pretty hot stuff,� cried Haley, with a shout of laughter. But Sam, unable to see the humor of the situation, exclaimed in a rage. �Here, you cursed fool, that is my bottle!� �Sorry to be so clumsy,� said Cameron apologetically. �But it surely wasn't anything to drink, was it? �Yes, it just was something to drink, was it?� mocked Sam, approaching Cameron with menace in his eye and attitude. �I have a blanked good notion to punch your head, too. �Oh, I wouldn't do that if I were you,� said Cameron, smiling pleasantly. �Say, Sam, don't get mad, Sam!� Interposed Haley, �This young feller is a friend of Tim's. I'll get another bottle, all right? I got the stuff right here.� He pulled out his roll of bills. �And lots more where this comes from.� �Let me have that, Mr. Haley. I'll get the bottle for you,� said Cameron, reaching out for the bills. �All right,� said Haley, �friend of Tim's, friend of mine. �Here, young feller, you're too fresh,� cried the red-faced man, buttoning here. �You make tracks. Get out. Come on, get out, I tell you.� �Give it to him quick,� said Sam, in a low voice. The red-faced man, without the slightest warning, swiftly stepped towards Cameron, and before the latter could defend himself, struck him a heavy blow. Cameron staggered, fell, and struggled again to his knees. The red-faced man sprang forward to kick him in the face when Haley interposed. �Hold up there now, friend of Tim's, friend of mine, you know.� �Hurry up,� said Sam, closing in on Haley. �Quit fooling. Give him the billy and let's get away.� But Haley, though unskilled with his hands, was a man of more than ordinary strength, and he swung his long arms about with such vigor that neither Sam, who was savagely striking at his head, nor the red-faced man, who was dancing about, waiting for a chance to get in with the billy, which he held in his hand, was able to bring the affair to a finish. It could be a matter of only a few moments, however, for both Sam and his friend were evidently skilled in the arts of the thug, while Haley, though powerful enough, was chiefly occupying himself in beating the air. A blow from the billy dropped one of Haley's arms helpless. The red-faced man, following up his advantage, ran into finish, but Haley gripped him by the wrist and, exerting all his strength, gave a mighty heave and threw him heavily against Sam, who was running in upon the other side. At the same time Cameron, who was rapidly recovering, clutched Sam by a leg and brought him heavily to the earth. Reaching down, Haley gripped Cameron by the collar and hauled him to his feet, just as Sam, who had sprung up, ran to the attack. Steadyed by Haley, Cameron braced himself, and at exactly the right moment stiffened his left arm with the whole weight of his body behind it. The result was a most unhappy one for Sam, who, expecting no such reception, was lifted clear off his feet and hurled to the ground some distance away. The exhilaration of his achievement brought Cameron's blood back again to his brain. Swiftly he turned upon the red-faced man just as that worthy had brought Haley to his knees with a cruel blow and was preparing to finish off his victim. With a shout, Cameron sprang at him, the man turned quickly, warded off Cameron's blow, and then, seeing Sam lying helpless on the ground, turned and fled down the lane. Say, young feller, panted Haley, staggering to his feet, you came in mighty slick that time, you ain't got a bottle on you, have you? No, said Cameron, but there's a pump nearby. Just as good and a little better, said Haley, staggering towards the pump. Say, he continued with a humorous twinkle in his eye and glancing at the man lying on the ground. Sam's kinder quiet, ain't he? Run again something hard like, I guess. Cameron filled a bucket with water and into its icy depths Haley plunged his head. Ow! That's good! he spluttered, plunging his head in again and again. Fill her up once more, he said, wiping off his face with a big red handkerchief. Now I shouldn't wonder if it would help Sam a bit. He picked up the bucket of water and approached Sam, who meantime had got to a sitting position and was blinking stupidly around. Here, you blamed hog, have a wash, you need it bad. So sang Haley flung the whole bucket of water over Sam's head and shoulders. Fill her up again, he said, but Sam had had enough, and swearing wildly, gasping and sputtering, he made off down the lane. I've heard of them circus tufts, said Haley in a meditative tone, but never just seen them before. Say, young feller, you came in mighty handy for me, all right, and seein' as your Tim's friend put it there. He gripped Cameron's hand and shook it heartily. Here's Tim with the team, and say, there's no need to mention anything about them fellers. Tim's real tender hearted. Well, I'm glad to have met ya. Goodbye. Livin' here? No. Travelin', eh? Not exactly, replied Cameron. The truth is I'm looking for a position. A position? Schoolteachin', maybe? No. A position on a farm. On a farm? Ha, ha! Good! Position on a farm, repeated Haley. Yes, replied Cameron, do you know of any? Position on a farm, said Haley again, as of trying to grasp the meaning of this extraordinary quest. There ain't any. No positions, inquired Cameron. Nary one, say, young man, where do you come from? Scotland, replied Cameron. Scotland, you don't say now. Just out, eh? Yes, about a month or so. Well, well, you don't say so. Yes, replied Cameron, and I am surprised to hear that there is no work. Oh, hold on there now, interposed Haley gravely. If it's work you want, there are stacks of it lying around, but there ain't no positions. Positions, ejaculated Haley, who seem to be fascinated by the word. There ain't none on my farm except one, and I hold that myself. But there's lots of work, and why I want a man right now. What say? Come along, stay long as you like. I like you fine. All right, said Cameron. Wait till I get my bag, but I ought to tell you I have had no experience. No experience, eh? Haley pondered. Well, we'll give it to you, and anyway you save me some experience today, and you come home with me. When he returned, he found Haley sitting on the bottom of the wagon, rapidly sinking into slumber. The effects of the bucket were passing off. What about the groceries, Tim? inquired Cameron. We've got to get them, said Tim, or we'll catch it, sure. Leaving Cameron to wonder what it might be that they were sure to catch, Tim extracted from his father's pocket the paper on which we're listed the groceries to be purchased, and the roll of bills, and handed both to Cameron. You best get them, he said, and mounting to the high spring seat, turned the team out of the yard. The groceries secured with Cameron's help. They set off for home as the long June evening was darkening in tonight. My it's awful late, said Tim, in a voice full of foreboding, and Perkins ain't no good at chores. How far is it to your home, inquired Cameron? Nine miles out this road, and three off to the east. And who's Perkins? Perkins. Joe Perkins. He's our hired man. He's a terror to work at Plowin, Cradlin, and Binding, but he ain't no good at chores. I'll bet you he'll leave Mandy to do the milking, ten cows, and some's awful bad. And who's Mandy? inquired Cameron. Mandy. She's my sister. She's an awful quick milker. She can beat Dad or Perkins or any of them, but ten cows is a lot, and then there's the pigs and the calves to feed, and the wood too. I bet Perkins won't cut a stick. He's good enough in the field, continued Tim, with an obvious desire to do Perkins full justice. But he ain't no good around the house. He says he ain't hired to do women's chores, and ma, she won't ask him. She says if he don't do what he sees to be done, she'd see him far enough before she'd ask him. And so Tim went on with a monologue replete with information, his high thin voice rising clear above the roar and rattle of the lumber wagon as it rumbled and jolted over the ruddy gravel road. Those who knew the boy would have been amazed at his locacity, but something in Cameron had won his confidence and opened his heart. Hence his monologue, in which the qualities, good and bad, of the members of the family, of their own hired man, and of other hired men were fully discussed. The standard of excellence for work in the neighborhood, however, appeared to be Perkins, whose abilities Tim appeared greatly to admire, but for whose person he appeared to have little regard. He's mighty good at turnipoing, too, he said. I could pretty near keep up to him last year, and I believe I could do it this year. Some day soon I'm going to get after him. My! I'd like to trim him to a fine point. The livestock on the farm in general, and the young colts in particular, among which a certain two-year-old was showing signs of marvelous speed, these incognate subjects relating to the farm, its dwellers and activities, Tim passed in review, with his own shrewd comments thereon. �And what do you play, Tim?� asked Cameron, seeking a point of contact with the boy. �Nothing,� said Tim shortly. �No time. �Don't you go to school?� �Yes, in fall and winter. Then we play ball and shinny some, but there ain't much time. �But you can't work all the time, Tim. What work can you do? �Oh!� replied Tim carelessly. �I run a team. �What do you mean?� Tim glanced up at him, and perceiving that he was quite serious, proceeded to explain that during the spring's work he had taken his place in the plowing and harrowing with the other men, that he expected to drive the mower and reaper in haying and harvest, that, in short, in almost all kinds of farmwork he was ready to take the place of a grown man, and all this without any sign of boasting. Cameron thought over his own life, in which sport had filled up so large a place and worked so little, and in which he had developed so little power of initiative and such meager self-dependence, and he envied the solemn-faced boy at his side, handling his team and wagon with the skill of a grown man. �I say, Tim,� he exclaimed in admiration, �you're great. I wish I could do half as much.� �Op shaw!� exclaimed him, in modest self-destained, �that ain't nothing, but I wish I could get off a bit. �Get off? What do you mean?� The boy was silent for some moments, then asked shyly, �Say, is there big cities in Scotland and crowds of people and trains and engines and factories and things?� �My, I wish I could get away.� Then Cameron understood dimly something of the wanderlust in the boy's soul, of the hunger for adventure, for the color and movement of life in the great world away from the farm, that thrilled in the boy's voice. So for the next half-hour he told Tim tales of his own life, the chief glory of which had been his achievements in the realm of sport, and before he was aware he was describing to the boy the great international with Wales, till remembering the disastrous finish he brought his narrative to an abrupt close. �And did you lick him?� demanded Tim, in a voice of intense excitement. �Now,� said Cameron shortly. �Oh, hedges, I wish you had� exclaimed Tim, in deep disappointment. �It was my fault� replied Cameron bitterly, for the eager wish in the boy's heart had stirred a similar yearning in his own, and had opened an old sore. �I was a fool� he said, �more to himself than to Tim. �I let myself get out of condition, and so I lost them the match. �Oh, get out� said Tim, with unbelieving scorn. �I bet you didn�t. �My, I wished I could see them games. �Obshaw�. �Tim, they are not half so worthwhile as plowing, harrowing, and running your team. Why here you are, a boy of� �How old?� �Thirteen� said Tim. �A boy of thirteen able to do a man's work, and here I am, a man of twenty-one, only able to do a boy's work, and not even that. �But I�m going to learn, Tim� added Cameron. �You hear me. I am going to learn to do a man�s work. �If I can�� he added doubtfully. �Oh, shucks� replied Tim. �You bet you can, and I�ll show you�, with which mutual determination they turned in at the gate of the Haley Farm, which was to be the scene of Cameron�s first attempt to do a man�s work, and to fill a man�s place in the world. End of Book 2 Chapter 3 A Day�s Work The Haley Farm was a survival of an ambitious past. Once the property of a rich English gentleman it had been laid out with an eye to appearance rather than to profit, and though the soil was good enough it had never been worked to profit. Consequently, when its owner had tired of colonial life he had at first rented the farm, but finding this unsatisfactory he, in a moment of disgust, advertised it for sale. Pretentious in its plan and in its appointments, its neglected and run-down condition gave it an air of decayed gentility, depressing a like to the eye of the beholder and to the selling price of the owner. Haley bought it and bought it cheap. From the high road a magnificent avenue of maples led to a house of fine proportions, though sadly needing repair. The wide verandas, the ample steps were unpainted and falling into ruin. The lawn reaching from the front door to the orchard was spacious, but overgrown with burdock, nettles, and other noxious weeds. The orchard, which stretched from the lawn to the road on both sides of the lane, had been allowed to run sadly to wood. At the side of the house the dooryard was littered with abandoned farm implements, piles of old fence rails and lumber, and other impedimenta, which, though kindly nature, abhorring the unsightly rubbish, was doing her utmost to hide it all beneath a luxuriant growth of docks, milkweed, and nettles, lent an air of disorder and neglect to the whole surroundings. The porch, or stoop, about the summer kitchen, was set out with an assortment of tubs and pails, pots, and pans, partially filled with various evil-looking and more evil smelling messes, which afforded an excellent breeding and feeding place for flies, mosquitoes, and other unpleasant insects. Joining the dooryard and separated from it by a fence was the barnyard, a spacious quadrangle flanked on three sides by barns, stables, and sheds, which were large and finely planned, but which now shared the general appearance of decrepitude. The fence, which separated one yard from the other, was broken down, so that the barnyard dwellers, calves, pigs, and poultry wandered at will in search of amusement or fodder to the very door of the kitchen, and so materially contributed to the general disorder, discomfort, and dirt. Away from the house, however, where nature had her own way, the farm stretched field after field on each side of the snake fenced lane to the line of woods in the distance, a picture of rich and varied beauty. From the rising ground on which the house was situated, a lovely vista swept right from the kitchen door away to the remnant of the forest primeval at the horizon. On every field the signs of coming harvest were luxuriously visible. The hay fields gray-green with blooming timothy and purple with the deep nestling clover, the fall wheat green and yellowing into gold, the spring wheat a lighter green and bursting into head, the oats with their graceful tasselated stalks, the turnip field ribbed with its lines of delicate green on the dark soil drills, back of all the slashing where stumps blackened with fire and trunks of trees piled here and there in confusion, all overgrown with weeds, represented the transition stage between forest and harvest field, and beyond the slashing the dark cool masses of maple, birch, and elm. All these made a scene of such varied loveliness as to delight the soul attuned to nature. Upon this scene of vivid contrasts, on one side house and barn and yard and on the other the rolling fields and massive forest, Cameron stood looking in the early light of his first morning on the farm, with mingled feelings of disgust and pleasure. In a few moments, however, the loveliness of the far view caught and held his eye and he stood as in a dream. The gentle rolling landscape with its rich variety of greens and yellows and grays that swept away from his feet to the dark masses of woods, with their suggestions of cool and shady depth, filled his soul with a deep joy and brought him memory of how the Glen of the Cup of Gold would look that morning in the dear homeland so far away. True, there were neither mountains nor moors, neither locks nor birch-clad cliffs here. Nature, in her quieter mood, looked up at him from these sloping fields and bosky woods and smiled with kindly face, and that smile of hers it was that brought to Cameron's mind the sunny Glen of the Cup of Gold. It was the sweetest, kindliest thing his eye had looked on since he had left the Glen. A harsh and fretful voice broke in upon his dreaming. Pa, there ain't a stick of wood for breakfast. There was none last night. If you want any breakfast, you best get some wood. All right, mother, called Haley from the barnyard where he was assisting and milking. I'm a coming. Cameron walked to meet him. Can I help? he inquired. Why, of course, shouted Haley. Here, ma, here's our new hand, the very man for you. Mrs. Haley, who had retired to the kitchen, appeared at the door. She was a woman past middle age, unduly stout, her face deep-lined with the fret of a multitude of cares, and hung with flabby folds of skin, brown with the sun and wind, though it must be confessed its color was determined more by the grease and grime than by the tan upon it. Yet in spite of the flabby folds of flesh, in spite of the grime and grease, there was still a reminiscence of a one-time comeliness, all the more pathetic by reason of its all-too-obvious desecration. Her voice was harsh, her tone fretful, which indeed was hardly to be wondered at, for the burden of her life was by no means light, and the cares of the household, within and without, were neither few nor trivial. For a moment or two Mrs. Haley stood in silence, studying and appraising the new man. The result did not apparently inspire her with hope. "'Come on now, paw,' she said. "'Stop your foolin' and get me that wood. I want it right now. You are keepin' me back, and there's awful lot to do.' "'But I ain't foolin', ma. Mr. Cameron is our new hand. He'll knock you off a few sticks in no time.' So saying, Haley walked off with his pales to the milking, leaving his wife and the new hand facing each other, each uncertain as to the next move. "'What can I do, Mrs. Haley?' inquired Cameron politely. "'Oh, I don't know,' said Mrs. Haley wearily. "'I want a few sticks for the breakfast. But perhaps I can get along with chips, but chips don't give no steady fire.' "'If you would show me just what to do,' said Cameron with some hesitation. I mean, where is the wood to be got?' "'There,' she said in a surprised tone, pointing to a pile of long logs of ash and maple. I don't want much.' She gathered her apron full of chips and turned away, all too obviously refusing to place her hope of wood for the breakfast fire upon the efforts of the new man. Cameron stood looking alternately at the long, hard, dry logs and at the ax which he had picked up from the bed of chips. The problem of how to produce the sticks necessary to breakfast by the application of the one to the other was one for which he could see no solution. He lifted his ax and brought it down hard upon the maple log. The result was a slight indentation upon the log and a sharp draw from the ax handle that ran up his arm unpleasantly. A series of heavy blows produced nothing more than a corresponding series of indentations in the tough maple log and of jars more or less sharp and painful shooting up his arms. The result was not encouraging, but it flashed upon him that this was his first attempt to make good at his job on the farm. He threw off his coat and went at his work with energy, but the probability of breakfast, so far as it depended upon the results of his efforts, seemed to be growing more and more remote. "'Guess she ain't got the knack of it,' said a voice, deep, full, and mellow behind him. That ax ain't good for shopping. That's a split knack.' Turning, he saw a girl of about seventeen, with little grace and less beauty, but strongly and stoutly built, and with a good natured, if somewhat stupid and heavy face. Her hair was done in color, coarse in texture, and done up loosely and carelessly in two heavy braids, arranged about her head in such a manner as to permit stray wisps of hair to escape about her face and neck. She was dressed in a loose pink wrapper, all too plainly of home manufacture, gathered in at the waist, and successfully obliterating any lines that might indicate the existence of any grace of form, and sadly spotted and stained with grease and dirt. Her red stout arms ended in thick and redder hands, decked with an array of black-rimmed nails. At his first glance, sweeping her taut ensemble, Cameron was conscious of a feeling of repulsion, but in a moment this feeling passed, and he was surprised to find himself looking into two eyes of surprising loveliness. Dark blue, well shaped, and of such liquid depths as to suggest pools of water under forested trees. They used the saw, mostly, said the girl. The saw echoed Cameron. Yes, she said, they saw him through and then split him with the ax. Cameron picked up the buck's saw which lay against a rickety saw-horse. Never in his life had he used such an instrument. He gazed helplessly at his companion. How do you use this thing? he inquired. Say, you are funny! replied the girl, flashing a keen glance upon him. Or don't you know? Never saw it done in my life, said Cameron solemnly. Here she cried, let me show you. She seized the end of a maple log, dragged it forward to the rickety saw-horse, set it in position, took the saw from his hands, and went at her work with such vigor that in less than a minute, as it seemed to Cameron, she had made the cut. Give me that ax, she said impatiently, to Cameron, who was preparing to split the block. With a few strong and skillful blows, she split the straight grain to block of wood into firewood, gathered up the sticks in her arms, and with a giggle turned toward the house. I won't charge anything for that lesson, she said, but you'll have to hustle if you get that wood split for breakfast. Thank you, said Cameron, grateful that none of the men had witnessed the instruction. I shall do my best. And for the next half hour, with little skill, but by main strength, he cut off a number of blocks from the maple log, and proceeded to split them. But in this he made slow progress. From the kitchen came cheerful sounds and sense of cooking, and ever and a non from the door waddled, with quite surprising celerity, the unwieldy bulk of the mistress of the house. Now that's just like your Paul, Cameron heard her grumbling to her daughter, bringing a man here just at the busy season, and you don't know nothing. He's pecking away at them blocks like a rooster pecking grain. He's willing enough, ma, replied the girl, and I'll guess he'll learn. Learn, puffed Mrs. Haley contemptuously. Did you ever see an old countryman learn to handle an axe or a scythe after he was grown up? Just look at him. Thank goodness there's Tim. Here, Tim, she called from the door. Best split some of that wood for breakfast. Tim approached Cameron with a look of pity on his face. Let me have a try, he said. Cameron yielded him the axe. The boy set on end, the block at which Cameron had been laboring, and with a swift glancing blow of the axe knocked off a slab. By Jove! By Jove! exclaimed Cameron admiringly. How did you do that? For the answer, the boy struck again the same glancing blow. A slab started, and at a second light blow fell to the ground. I say! exclaimed Cameron again. I must learn that trick. Oh, that's easy, said Tim, knocking the slabs off from the outside of the block. This heart's going to be tough, though. Gotta knot in it. And tough it proved, resisting all his blows. You're a tough sucker now, ain't ya? said Tim, through his shut teeth, addressing the block. We'll try you this way. He laid the end of the block upon a log and plied the axe with the full strength of his slight body. But the block danced upon the log and resisted all his blow. Say, you are a tough one now, he said, pausing for breath. Let me try that, said Cameron, and putting forth his strength, he brought the axe down fairly upon the stick with such force that the instrument sure cleaned through the knot and sank onto the log below. Huh, that's a cracker, said Tim, with ungrudging admiration. All you want is knack. I'll slab it off, and you can do the knots, he added with a grin. As a result of this somewhat unequal division of labor, there lay in half an hour a goodly pile of firewood ready for the cooking. It caught Haley's eye as he came into breakfast. I say, Mrs, that's a bigger pile than you've had for some time. Guess my new man ain't so slow after all. Huh! puffed his wife, waddling about with great agility. It was Tim that done it. Now, ma, you know well enough he helped Tim, and right smart too, said the daughter. But her mother was too busy getting breakfast ready for the hungry men who were now performing their morning ablutions with the help of a very small basin set upon a block of wood outside the kitchen door to answer. There were two men employed by Haley, one the son of a scotch Canadian farmer, Webster by name, a stout young fellow, but slow in his movements, both physical and mental, and with no further ambition then to do a fair day's work for a fair day's pay. He was employed by the month during the busier seasons of the year. The other, Perkins, was Haley's steady man, which means that he was employed by the year and was regarded almost as a member of the family. Perkins was an Englishman, with fair hair and blue eyes, of fresh complexion, burned to a clear red, clean cut features, and a well-knit athletic frame. He was, as Tim declared, a terror to work. Indeed his fame as a worker was well established throughout the countryside. To these men Cameron was introduced as being from Scotland and as being anxious to be initiated into the mysteries of Canadian farm life. Glad to see you, said Perkins, shaking him heartily by the hand. We'll make a farmer of you, won't we, Tim? From Scotland, eh? Pretty fine country I hear. To leave, he added with a grin at his own humor. Though his manner was pleasant enough, Cameron became conscious of a feeling of aversion, which he recognized at once, as being unreasonable as it was inexplicable. He set it down as a reflection of Tim's mental attitude toward the hired man. Perkins seized the tin basin, dipped some water from the rain barrel standing near, and setting it down before Cameron said, Here, pile in, Scotty. Do they wash in your country? Yes, replied Cameron, they are rather strong on that. Wondering at the same time how the operation could be performed successfully was such a moderate supply of water. After using a second and third supply, however, he turned, with hands and face dripping, and looked about for a towel. Perkins handed him a long roller-towel, black with a dirt and stiff with grease. Had his life depended upon it, Cameron could not have avoided a shuddering hesitation, as he took the filthy cloth preparatory to apply it to his face. Twenthercha laughed, Perkins. Wash day ain't till next week, you know, and this is only Wednesday. Suddenly the towel was snatched from Cameron's hands. Give me that towel. It was the girl with face of flame and eyes emitting blue fire. Here, Mr. Cameron, take this, she said. Great Jerusalem, Mandy! You ain't going to bring on a clean towel in the middle of the week, said Perkins and Mock Dismay. Guess it's for Mr. Cameron. He continued with another laugh. We give clean towels to them that knows how to use them, said Mandy, whisking wrathfully into the house. Say, Scotty, said Perkins, in a loud, bantering tone. Guess you're making a mash on Mandy all right. I don't know exactly what you mean, said Cameron, with a quick rising of wrath, but I do know that you are making a beastly cat of yourself. I don't get wrathy, Scotty, laughed, Perkins. We're just having a little fun. Here's the comb. But Cameron declined the article, which from its appearance seemed to be intended for family use, and proceeding to his room completed his toilets there. The breakfast was laid in the kitchen proper, a spacious and comfortable room which served as a living room for the household. The table was laden with a variety and abundance of food that worthily sustained the reputation of the hallies of being good feeders. At one end of the table, a large plate was heaped high with slices of fat pork, and here and there, disposed along its length, were dishes of fried potatoes, huge piles of bread, hot biscuits, plates of butter, pies of different kinds, maple syrup, and applesauce. It was a breakfast fit for a lord, and Cameron sat down with a pleasurable anticipation induced by his early rising and his half-hour's experience in the fresh morning air with the wood pile. A closer inspection, however, of the dishes somewhat dampened the pleasure of his anticipation. The food was good, abundant, and well-cooked, but everywhere there was an utter absence of cluddliness. The plates were greasy, the forks and knives bore the all too evident remains of former meals, and everywhere were flies. In hundreds they swarmed upon the food, while drowned in the gravy, cooked in the potatoes, overwhelmed in the maple syrup, buried in the butter, their ghastly carcasses were to be seen. With apparent unconcern, the men brushed aside the living and picked out and set aside the remains of the dead, the unhappy victims of their own greed or temerity, and went on calmly and swiftly with their business. Not a word was spoken except by Cameron himself, who, constrained by what he considered to be the ordinary decencies of society, made an effort to keep up a conversation with Mr. Haley at the head of the table, and occasionally ventured a remark to his wife, who, with Mandy, was acting as a waiter upon the hungry men. But conversation is a social exercise, and Cameron found himself compelled to abandon his well-meant but solitary efforts at maintaining the conventions of the breakfast table. There was neither time nor occasion for conversation. The business of the hour was something quite another, namely that of devouring as large a portion of the foods that before them as was possible within the limits of time assigned for the meal. Indeed the element of time seemed to be one of very considerable importance, as Cameron discovered, for he was still picking his way gingerly and carefully through his pork and potatoes, by the time that Perkins, having completed a second course consisting of pie and maple syrup, had arrived at the final course of bread and butter and applesauce. Circulate the butter, he demanded of the table in general. He took the plate from Cameron's hand, looked at it narrowly for a moment, then with a thumb and forefinger, drew from the butter, with great deliberation, a long, done-colored hair. Say, he said in a low voice, but perfectly audible, they forgot to comb it this morning. Cameron was filled with unspeakable disgust, but glancing at Mrs. Haley's face, he saw to his relief that both the action and the remark had been unnoticed by her. But on Mandy's face he saw the red ensign of shame and wrath, and in spite of himself he felt his aversion towards the ever-smiling hired man, deepened into rage. Finding himself distanced in his progress through the various courses at breakfast, Cameron determined to miss the intermediate course of pie and maple syrup, that he might finish on more even terms with the others, preceded with the bread and butter and applesauce. Don't you hurry, said Mrs. Haley with hearty hospitality. Eat plenty, there's lots to spare. Here, have some applesauce. She caught up the bowl, which held this most delicious article of food. Where's the spoon? She said, glancing round the table. There was none immediately available. Here, she cried, this'll do. She snatched a large spoon from the pitcher of thick cream, held it dripping for a moment in obvious uncertainty, then with sudden decision she cried, never mind, and with swift but effective application of lip and tongue, she cleansed the spoon of the dripping cream, and, stirring the applesauce vigorously, passed the bowl to Cameron. For a single moment Cameron held the bowl, uncertain whether to refuse or not, but before he could make up his mind, Mandy caught it from his hands. Oh, ma! she exclaimed in a horrified tone. What's the matter, exclaimed her mother? A little cream won't hurt. But Mandy set the bowl at the far end of the table, and passed another to Cameron, who accepted it with resolute determination, and continued his breakfast. But Perkins, followed by Webster and Tim, rose from the table and passed out into the yard, whence his voice could be heard in explosions of laughter. Cameron, in the meantime, was making heroic attempts to cover up the sound by loud-voiced conversation with Haley, and rendered desperate by the exigencies of the situation, went so far as to venture a word of praise to Mrs. Haley upon the excellence and abundance of her cooking. She ain't got no chance, said her husband. She's got too much to do, and it's awful hard to get help. Of course there's Mandy. Of course there's Mandy, echoed his wife. I guess she'd just better say there's Mandy. She's, the whole thing, is Mandy. What I'd do without her, goodness, only knows. But Mandy was no longer present to enjoy her mother's econominiums. Her voice could be heard in the yard, making fierce response to Perkins' jesting remarks. As Cameron was passing out from the kitchen, he could hear her bitter declaration, I don't care, it was real mean of you, and I'll pay you for it yet, Mr. Perkins, before a stranger, too. Mandy's voice suggested tears. Oh, Shaw, Mandy, remonstrated Perkins, it was all a joke, and who cares for him anyway, unless it's yourself. But Mandy, catching sight of Cameron, fled with fiery face behind the kitchen, leaving Perkins gazing after her with an apologetic grin upon his countenance. She's rather hot under the collar, he confided to Cameron, but she didn't get so, I didn't mean nothing. Cameron ignored him. He was conscious mainly of a resolute determination that at all costs he must not yield to his almost uncontrollable desire to wipe the apologetic smile with a well-directed blow. Mr. Denman's parting advice was in his mind, and he was devoting all his powers to the business of adjusting himself to his present environment. But to his fastidious nature the experiences of the morning made it somewhat doubtful if he should be able to carry out the policy of adjustment to the extreme of schooling himself to bear with equal mind the daily contact with the dirt and disorder which held so large a place in the domestic economy of the Haley household. One thing he was firmly resolved upon, he would henceforth perform his toilet in his own room and thereby save himself the horror of the family roller-towel and the family comb. Breakfast over, the men stood waiting orders for the day. We'll have to crowd them turn-ups through, Tim, said his father, who seemed to avoid as far as possible giving direct orders to his men. Next week we'll have to get at the hay, so to the turn-up field they went. It is one of the many limitations of a city-bread boy that he knows nothing of the life history and the culture of the things that grow upon a farm. Apples and potatoes he recognizes when they appear as articles of diet upon the table. Oats and wheat he vaguely associates in some mysterious and remote way with porridge and bread. But whether potatoes grow on trees or oats in pods, he has no certain knowledge. Blessed is the country boy for many reasons, but for none more than this, that the world of living and growing things, animate and inanimate, is one of which he has explored and which he intimately knows. And blessed is the city boy for whom his wise parents provide means of acquaintance with this wonder workshop of old mother nature, God's own open country. Turn-up hoeing is an art, a fine art, demanding all the talents of high genius, a true eye, a sure hand, a sensitive conscience, industry, courage, endurance, and pride and achievement. These and other gifts are necessary to high success. Not to every man is it given to become a turn-up hoar in the true sense of that word. The art is achieved only after long and patient devotion, and indeed many never attain high excellence. Of course, therefore, there are grades of artists in this as in other departments. There are turn-up hoars and turn-up hoars, just as there are painters and painters. It was Tim's ambition to be the first turn-up hoar of his district, and toward this end he had striven both last season and this with a devotion that deserved, if it did not achieve, success. Quietly he had been patterning himself upon that masterful artist Perkins, who for some years had easily held a championship for the district. Keenly, Tim had been observing Perkins' excellencies and also his defects. Secretly he had been developing a style of his own, and all unnoted he had tested his speed by that of Perkins by adopting the method of lazily loafing along, and then catching up by a few minutes of whirlwind work. Tim felt in his soul the day of battle could not be delayed past this season. Indeed it might come any day. The very thought of it made his slight body quiver, and his heart beat so quickly as almost to choke him. To the turnip field hide Haley's men, Perkins and Webster leading the way, Tim and Cameron, bringing up the rear. You promised to show me how to do it, Tim, said Cameron. Remember, I shall be very slow. Oh shucks, replied Tim. Turnip Hoenn is as easy as rolling off a log if you know how to do it. Exactly, cried Cameron, but that is what I don't. You might give me some pointers. Well, you must be able to hit what you aim at. Ah, that means a good eye and a steady hand, said Cameron. Well, I can do billiards in some golf. What else? Well, you mustn't be too careful. Slash right in and don't give a rip. Ah, nerve, eh? Said Cameron. Well, I have done some rugby in my day. I know something of that. What else? This sounds good. Then you've only got to leave one turnip in one place and not a weed. And you mustn't leave any blanks. Dad gets hot over that. Indeed, one turnip in each place and not a weed, echoed Cameron. Say, this business grows interesting. No blanks. Anything else he demanded? No, I guess not. Only if you ever get into a race, you've got to keep going after you're cleared, tuckered out, and never let on. You see, the other chap may be feeling worse than you. Bye, Jove. Tim, you're a born general, exclaimed Cameron. You will go some distance if you keep on in that line. Now, as to racing, let me venture a word for I have done a little in my time. Don't spurt too soon. Hey, said Tim, all eagerness. Don't get into your racing stride too early in the day, especially if you are up against a stronger man. Wait till you know you can stay till the end, and then put your best licks in at the finish. Tim pondered. By Jiminy, you're right, he cried. A glad light in his eye and a touch of color in his pale cheek, and Cameron knew he was studying war. The turnip field, let it be said, for the enlightening of the benighted and unfortunate city red folk, is laid out in a series of drills, a drill being a long ridge of earth some six inches in height, some eight inches broad on the top, and twelve at the base. Upon each drill, the seed has been sown in one continuous line from end to end of the field. When this seed has grown, each drill would discover a line of delicate green, this line being nothing less than a compact growth of young turnip plants with weeds more or less thickly interspersed. The operation of hoeing consists in the eliminating of the weeds and the surplus turnip plants. In order that single plants free from weeds may be left some eight inches apart in unbroken line, extending the whole length of the drill. The artistic hoar, however, is not content with this. His artistic soul demands not only that single plants should stand in unbroken row from end to end along a drill-top, but that the drill itself should be pared down on each side to the likeness of a house-roof with a perfectly even ridge. Everhoe turnips, inquired Perkins. Never, said Cameron, and I am afraid I won't make much of a fist at it. While you have come to a good place to learn, eh, Tim? We'll show him, won't we? Tim made no reply, but simply handed Cameron a hoe and picked up his own. Now show me, Tim, said Cameron in a low voice as Perkins and Webster set off their drills. This is how you do it, replied Tim. Click, click. Forward and back went Tim's sharp shining instrument, leaving a single plant standing shyly alone where had boldly bunched a score or more a moment before. Click, click, click. And the flat-topped drill stood free of weeds and surplus turnip plants and trimmed to its proffer, roof-like appearance. I say, exclaimed Cameron, this is high art. I shall never reach your class, though, Tim. Ah, shucks, said Tim. Slash in, don't be afraid. Cameron slashed in. Click, click. Click, click, click. When low, a long blank space of drill looked up reproachfully at him. Oh, Tim, look at this mess, he said and discussed. Never mind, said Tim, let her rip. Better stick one in, though. Blanks looked bad at the end of the drill. So, saying, he made a hole in Cameron's drill, and with his hoe dug up a bunch of plants from another drill and padded them firmly into place. And, weeding out the unnecessary plants, left a single turnip in its proper place. Oh, come, that isn't so bad, said Cameron. We can always fill up the blanks. Yes, but it takes time, replied Tim, evidently with the racing fever in his blood. Patiently, Tim schooled his pupil throughout the forenoon, and before the dinner hour had come, Cameron was making what to Tim appear to satisfactory progress. It was greatly in Cameron's favor that he possessed a trained and true eye and a steady hand, and that he was quick in all his movement. You do, and splendid, cried Tim, full of admiration. I say, Scotty, said Perkins, coming up and casting a critical eye along Cameron's last drill. You're going to make a turnip hoar, all right. I've got a good teacher, you see, cried Cameron. You bet you have, said Perkins. I taught Tim myself, and in two or three years he'll be almost as good as I am, eh, Tim? Ha, grunted Tim contemptuously, but let it go at that. Perhaps you think you're that now, eh, Tim? Said Perkins, seizing the boy by the back of the neck and rubbing his hand over his hair in a manner perfectly maddening. Don't you get too, perky young feller, or I'll hang your shirt on the fence before the day's done. Tim wriggled out of his grasp and kept silent. He was not yet ready with his challenge. All through the afternoon he stayed behind with Cameron, allowing the other two to help them out at the end of each drill. But as the day wore on, there was less and less need of assistance for Cameron, for he was making rapid progress with his work, and Tim was able to do not only his own drill, but almost half of Cameron's as well. By suppertime Cameron was thoroughly done out. Never had a day seemed so long, never had he known that he possessed so many muscles in his back. The continuous stooping and the steady click-click of the hoe, together with the unceasing strain of hand and eye, and all this under-the-hot burning rays of a June sun, so exhausted his vitality that when the cowbell rang for supper, it seemed to him sound more delightful than the strains of a Richter orchestra and a Beethoven symphony. On the way back to the field after supper, Cameron observed that Tim was in a state of suppressed excitement, and it dawned upon him that the hour of his challenge of Perkins supremacy as a turnip hoar was at hand. I say, Tim boy, he said earnestly, listen to me. You are going to get after Perkins this evening, eh? How did you know? said Tim in surprise. Never mind, now listen to me. I have raced myself some, and I have trained men to race. Are you not too tired with your day's work? Tired? Not a bit, said the gallant little soul scornfully. Well, all right, it's nice and cool, and you can't hurt yourself much. Now, how many drills do you do after supper as a rule? Down and up twice, said Tim. How many drills can you do at your top speed? Your very top speed, remember? About two drills, I guess, replied Tim after a moment's thought. Now listen to me, said Cameron impressively. Go quietly for two and a half drills, then let yourself out and go your best. And listen, I have been watching you this afternoon. You have easily done once and a half what Perkins has done, and you are going to lick him out of his boots. Tim gulped a moment or two, looked at his friend with glistening eyes, but said not a word. For the first two and a half drills, Cameron exerted to the highest degree his conversational powers with the twofold purpose of holding back Perkins and Webster, and also of so occupying Tim's mind that he might forget for a time the approaching conflict, the strain of waiting for which he knew would be exhausting for the lad. But when the middle of the second-last drill had been reached, Tim began unconsciously to quicken his speed. I say Tim, called Cameron, come here. Am I getting these spaces too wide? Tim came over to his side. Now Tim, said Cameron in a low voice, wait a little longer. You can never wear him out. Your only chance is in speed. Wait to the last drill. But Tim was not to be held back. Back he went to his place, and with a rush brought his drill up even with Webster, passed him, and in a few moments, like a whirlwind, passed Perkins and took the lead. Hello, Timmy, where are you going? Asked Perkins in surprise. Home, said Tim proudly, and I'll tell him you're coming. All right, Timmy, my son, replied Perkins with a laugh. Tell him you won't need no hot bath. I'm after you. Click, click, click, click, was Tim's only answer. It was a distinct challenge, and while not openly breaking into racing speed, Perkins accepted it. For some minutes, Webster quickened his pace in an attempt to follow the leaders, but soon gave it up and fell back to help Cameron up with his drill, remarking, I ain't no blamed fool. I ain't going to bust myself for any man. They're racing, not me. Will Tim win? inquired Cameron. No, not this year. Why Perkins is the best man in the whole country at turnips. He took the Agricultural Society's prize two years ago. I believe Tim will beat him, said Cameron confidently, with his eyes upon the two in front. Be nothing, said Webster. You just wait a bit. Perkins isn't letting himself out yet. In a short time, Tim finished his drill some distance ahead, and then, though it was quit in time, without a pause he swung into the next. Hello, Timmy, cried Perkins, good-naturedly. Going to work all night, eh? Well, I'll just take a whirl out of you, and for the first time he frankly threw himself into his racing gate. Good boy, Tim, called out Cameron, as Tim bore down upon them, still in the lead, and going like a small steam engine. You're all right and going easy, don't worry. But Perkins, putting on a great spurt, drew up within a whole handle length of Tim, and there held his place. All right, Timmy boy, you can hold him, cried Cameron, as the racers came down upon him. He can, eh? replied Perkins. I'll show him and you. And with an accession of speed, he drew up on a level with Tim. Ah-ha! Timmy, my boy, we've got you where we want you, I guess, he exalted, and with a whoop and still increasing his speed, he drew past the boy. But Cameron, who was narrowly observing the combatants and their work, called out again. Don't worry, Tim, you're doing nice, clean work, and doing it easily. The inference was obvious, and Perkins, who had been slashing wildly and leaving many blanks and weeds behind him, where neither blanks nor weeds should be, steadied down somewhat, and taking more pains with his work began to lose ground, while Tim, whose work was without flaw, moved again to the front place. There remained half a drill to be done, and the issue was still uncertain. With half the length of a hoe-handle between them, the two clicked along at a furious pace. Tim's hat had fallen off. His face showed white, and his breath was coming fast, but there was no slackening of speed, and the cleanness and ease with which he was doing his work showed that there was still some reserve in him. They were approaching the last quarter, when, with a yell, Perkins threw himself again with a wild recklessness into his work, and again he gained upon Tim and passed him. Steady Tim, cried Cameron, who, with Webster, had given up their own work, it being, as the latter remarked, quit in time anyway, and were following up the racers. Don't spoil your work, Tim, continued Cameron. Don't worry. His words caught the boy at a critical moment, for Perkins' yell and his fresh exhibition of speed had shaken the lad's nerve, but Cameron's voice steadied him, and quickly responding, Tim settled down again into his old style, while Perkins was still in the lead but slashing wildly. Fine work, Tim, said Cameron quietly, and you can do better yet. For a few paces he walked behind the boy, steadying him now and then with a quiet word, then, recognizing that the crisis of the struggle was at hand, and believing that the boy still had some reserve of speed and strength, he began to call on him. Come on, Tim, quicker, quicker, come on, boy, you can do better. His words and his tone more than his words were like a spur to the boy. From some secret source of supply he called up an unsuspected reserve of strength and speed, and still keeping up his clean, cutting, finished style. Foot by foot he drew away from Perkins, who followed in the rear, slashing more wildly than ever. The race was practically won. Tim was well in the lead, and apparently gaining speed with every click of his hoe. Here, you fellers, what are you hashing them turnips for? It was Haley's voice, who, unperceived, had come into the field. Tim's reply was a letting-out of his last ounce of strength and a perfect fury of endeavor. There ain't no hashing on this drill, dad, he panted. The sudden demand for careful work, however, at once lowered Perkins' rate of speed. He fell rapidly behind, and after a few moments of further struggle, threw down his hoe with a whoop and called out, quit and tie my guess, and striding after Tim, he caught him by the arms and swung him round clear off the ground. Here, let me go, gasped the boy, kicking, squirming, and trying to strike his antagonist with his hoe. Let the boy go, said Cameron. The tone in his voice arrested Perkins' attention. What's your business? He cried with an oath, dropping the boy and turning fiercely upon Cameron. Oh, nothing very much, except that Tim's my candidate in this race, and he mustn't be interfered with, replied Cameron in a voice still quiet and with a pleasant smile. Perkins was white and panting. In a moment more, he would have hurled himself at the men who stood smiling quietly in his face. At this critical moment Haley interposed. What's the row, boys? He inquired, recognizing that something serious was on. We've been having a little excitement, sir, in the form of a race, replied Cameron, and I've been backing Tim. Looks as if you've got him wound up so he can't stop, replied Haley, pointing to the boy who was still going at racing pace and was just finishing his drill. Oh, well, a boy's a boy and you've got to humor him now and then, continued Haley, making conversation with diplomatic skill. Then turning to Perkins as if dismissing a trivial subject he added, looks to me as if that hay in the lower meadow is pretty nigh fit to cut. Guess we better not wait till next week. You best start Tim on that with the mower in the morning. Then taking a survey of the heavens he added, looks as if it might be a spell of good weather. His diplomacy was successful and the moment of danger was past. Meantime Cameron had sauntered to the end of the drill what Tim stood leaning quietly on his hoe. Tim, you are a turnip hoar, he said, with warm admiration in his tone. And what's more, Tim, you're a sport. I'd like to handle you in something big. You will make a man yet. Tim's whole face flushed a warm red under the coat of freckles. For a time he stood silently contemplating the turnips, then with difficulty he found his voice. It was you done it, he said, choking over his words. I was beat there and was just quitting when you came along and spoke. My, he continued, with a sharp intake of his breath. I was awful near-quitten. And then, looking straight into Cameron's eyes, it was you done it, and I won't forget. His voice choked again, but reading his eyes, Cameron knew that he had gained one of life's greatest treasures, a boy's adoring gratitude. This has been a great day, Tim, said Cameron. I have learned to hoe turnips and, putting his hand on the boy's shoulder, I believe I have made a friend. Again the hot blood surged into Tim's face. He stood voiceless, but he needed no words. Cameron knew well the passionate emotion that thrilled his soul and shook the slight body, trembling under his hand. For Tim, too, it had been a notable day. He had achieved the greatest ambition of his life in beating the best turnip hoar on the line, and he, too, had found what to a boy is a priceless treasure. A man upon whom he could lavish the hero worship of his soul. End of Book 2, Chapter 3