Part 20 (1/2)
Grenfell shrugged his shoulder.
”Told me to get out of camp right away.”
Just then Colvin approached them, and his manner was for once slightly deprecatory.
”It doesn't pay to know more than the boss,” he said; and then he looked at Weston. ”He has to get out. What are you going to do?”
He had Weston's answer immediately.
”Ask you for my time.”
”Well,” said Colvin, with a gesture of expostulation, ”I guess you know your own business. Still, I'm quite willing to keep you.”
Weston thanked him, and then went with him to his shanty where he was handed a few bills, and in another hour he and Grenfell had once more strapped their packs upon their shoulders. He did not know where he was going, or what he would do, but he struck into the trail to the railroad, and it was dusk when they reached a little wooden settlement. He went into the post-office to make a few inquiries before he decided whether he should stay there that night, and the woman who kept it, recognizing him as a man from the mine, handed him a letter. When he opened it he saw, somewhat to his astonishment, that it was from Stirling. It was very terse, but it informed him that Miss Stirling and her friends purposed camping among the islands of one of the eastern lakes, which was then a rather favorite means of relaxation with the inhabitants of Toronto and Montreal. Stirling desired him to accompany the party, on terms which appeared very satisfactory, and added that if he were acquainted with another man likely to make an efficient camp attendant he could bring him along.
Weston started a little when he reached the last suggestion, for he fancied that it was Miss Stirling who had made it. He leaned on the counter for several minutes, thinking hard; and then, though he was not sure that he acted wisely, he started for the station to despatch a telegram, as Stirling had directed. The next morning the agent handed him tickets for himself and Grenfell, and they set out on the Atlantic train.
CHAPTER XIII
STIRLING LETS THINGS SLIDE
It was early evening when Weston swung himself down from the platform of the Colonist car in a little roadside station shut in by the pine bush of Ontario. There was a wooden hotel beside the track, and one or two stores; but that was all, and the fact that n.o.body except the station-agent had appeared to watch the train come in testified to the industry, or, more probably, the loneliness of the district. While Weston stood looking about him a man came out of the office, and he was somewhat astonished to find himself face to face with his employer.
The smart straw hat and light summer suit did not become the contractor. He was full-fleshed and red of face, and the artistically cut garments striped in soft colors conveyed a suggestion of ease and leisure which seemed very much out of place on him. One could not imagine this man lounging on a sunlit beach, or discoursing airily on a cool veranda.
”Got here,” he said abruptly, and then swung around and looked at Grenfell. ”This is the other man? Well, he can stay and bring along the baggage. There's most a freight-car full. They'll give him a wagon and team at the hotel.”
He indicated a great pile of trunks and cases with a wave of his hand, and, seeing Weston's astonishment, added with a twinkle in his eyes:
”My daughter and her friends are camping. They have to have these things.”
Weston understood his employer's smile. This, he recognized, was a man who could be content with essential things, and in all probability had at one time esteemed himself fortunate when he succeeded in obtaining them.
”Hadn't I better help him load them up?” he asked.
”No,” said Stirling, with a curtness at which Weston could not take offense. ”He can put in the evening that way if it's necessary. It will supple him, and I guess he needs it. I have a rig ready. You're coming along with me.”
Weston took his place in the light, four-wheeled vehicle, and found it difficult to keep it, for the trail was villainous, and Stirling drove rapidly. Their way led between shadowy colonnades of towering firs, and the fragile, two-seated frame bounced and lurched into and out of deep ruts, and over the split trees that had been laid flat-side downward in the quaggy places--like a field gun going into action was the best comparison Weston could think of. The horses, however, kept their feet, and the wheels held fast. Once, when a jolt nearly pitched him from his seat, Stirling laughed.
”After the city it's a relief to let them out,” he said. ”I did this kind of thing for a living once. The mine was way back in the bush, leagues from anywhere, and I hired out as special store and despatch carrier. There was red-hot trouble unless I got through on time when the mail came in.”
He drove the team furiously at an unguarded log bridge which was barely wide enough to let the wheels pa.s.s.
”It's quite a way to the lake yet, and we want to make the camp before it's dark,” he explained. ”Know anything about sailing a boat?”
Weston said that he did, and Stirling nodded.
”That's good,” he observed somewhat dryly, ”so does the major man.”