Part 11 (1/2)

The man laughed. ”There are a good many that appeal to me. Once it was collecting sealskins off other people's beaches, and there was zest enough in that, in view of the probability of the dory turning over, or a gunboat dropping on to you. Then there was a good deal of very genuine excitement to be got out of placer-mining in British Columbia, especially when there was frost in the ranges, and you had to thaw out your giant-powder. Shallow alluvial workings have a way of caving in when you least expect it of them. After all, however, I think I like the prairie farming best.”

”Is that exciting?”

”Yes,” returned Wyllard, ”if you do it in one way. The gold's there--that you're sure of--piled up by nature during I don't know how many thousand years, but you have to stake high, if you want to get much of it out. One needs costly labor,--teams--no end of them--breakers, and big gang-plows. The farmer who has nerve enough drills his last dollar into the soil in spring, but if he means to succeed it costs him more than that. He must give the sweat of his tensest effort, the uttermost toil of his body--all, in fact, that has been given him. Then he must shut his eyes tight to the hazards against him, or look at them without wavering--the drought, the hail, the harvest frost, I mean. If his teams fall sick, or the season goes against him, he must work double tides.

Still, it now and then happens that things go right, and the red wheat rolls ripe right back across the prairie. I don't know that any man could want a keener thrill than the one he feels when he drives in the binders!”

Agatha had imagination, and she could realize something of the toil, the hazard, and the exultation of that victory.

”You have felt it often?” she inquired.

”Twice we helped to fill a big elevator,” Wyllard answered. ”But I've been very near defeat.”

The girl looked at him thoughtfully. It seemed that he possessed the power of acquisition, as well as a wide generosity that came into play when by strenuous effort success had been attained. So far as her experience went, these were things that did not invariably accompany each other.

”And when the harvest comes up to your expectations, you give your money away?” she asked with a lifting of her brows.

Wyllard laughed. ”You shouldn't deduce too much from a single instance.

Besides, that Pole's case hasn't cost me anything yet.”

Mrs. Hastings joined them, and when Wyllard strolled away the women pa.s.sed some time leaning on the rails, and looking at the groups of shadowy figures on the forward deck. The att.i.tude of the steerage pa.s.sengers was dejected and melancholy, but one cl.u.s.ter had gathered around a man who stood upon the hatch.

”Oh,” he declared, ”you'll have no trouble. Canada's a great country for a poor man. He can sleep beneath a bush all summer, if he can't strike anything he likes.”

This did not appear particularly encouraging, but the orator went on: ”Been over for a trip to the Old Country, and I'm glad I'm going back again. Went out with nothing except a good discharge, and they made me Sergeant of Canadian Militia. After that I was armorer to a rifle club.

There's places a blame long way behind the Dominion, and I struck one of them when we went with Roberts to Afghanistan. It was on that trip I and a Pathan rolled all down a hill, him trying to get his knife arm loose, and me jabbing his breastbone with my bayonet before I got it into him.

I drove it through to the socket. You want to make quite sure of a Pathan.”

Miss Rawlinson winced at this. ”Oh,” she cried, ”what a horrible man!”

”It was 'most as tough as when you went after Riel, and stole the Scotchman's furs,” suggested a Canadian.

The sergeant let the jibe go by. He said: ”Louis's bucks could shoot! We had them corraled in a pit, and every time one of the boys from Montreal broke cover he got a bullet into him. Did any of you ever hear a dropped man squeal?”

Agatha had heard sufficient, and she and her companions turned away, but as they moved across the deck the sergeant's voice followed her.

”Oh, yes,” he said, ”a grand country for a poor man. In the summer he can sleep beneath a bush.”

For some reason this eulogy haunted Agatha when she retired to her stateroom that night, and she wondered what awaited all those aliens in the new land. It occurred to her that in some respects she was situated very much as they were. For the first time, vague misgivings crept into her mind as she realized that she had cut herself adrift from all to which she had been accustomed. She felt suddenly depressed and lonely.

The depression had, however, almost vanished when, awakening rather early next morning, she went up on deck. A red sun hung over the tumbling seas that ran into the hazy east astern. The waves rolled up in crested phalanxes that gleamed green and incandescent white ahead. The _Scarrowmania_ plunged through them with a spray cloud flying about her dipping bows. She was a small, old-fas.h.i.+oned boat, and because she carried 3,000 tons of railway iron she rolled distressfully. Her tall spars swayed athwart the vivid blueness of the morning sky with the rhythmic regularity of a pendulum. The girl was not troubled by any sense of sea-sickness. The keen north-wester that sang amid the shrouds was wonderfully fresh; and, when she met Wyllard crossing the saloon deck, her cheeks were glowing from the sting of the spray, and her eyes were bright.

”Where have you been?” she asked.

”Down there,” answered Wyllard, pointing to the black opening in the fore-hatch that led to the steerage quarters. ”An acquaintance of mine who's traveling forward asked me to take a look round, and I'm rather glad I did. When I've had a word with the chief steward I'm going back again.”

”You have a friend down there?”

”I met the man for the first time yesterday, and rather took to him. One of your naval petty officers, forcibly retired. He can't live upon his pension, that is why he's going out to Canada. Now you'll excuse me.”

”I wonder,” ventured Agatha, ”if you would let me go back with you?”