Part 19 (1/2)

”You knew, of course, that I was a mining engineer?” he said at last, pulling up in his examination.

”Well, I heard of you that onst at Dawson City,” was the slow reply. ”I supposed you were nosin' round like the rest.”

”Why, I didn't go as a mere prospector! I'd had my training at Montreal.” And Anderson resumed his questions.

But McEwen presently took no pains to answer them. He grew indeed less and less communicative. The exact locality of the mine, the names of the partners, the precise machinery required--Anderson, in the end, could get at neither the one nor the other. And before many more minutes had pa.s.sed he had convinced himself that he was wasting his time. That there was some swindling plot in his father's mind he was certain; he was probably the tool of some shrewder confederates, who had no doubt sent him to Montreal after his legacy, and would fleece him on his return.

”By the way, Aunt Sykes's money, how much was it?” Anderson asked him suddenly. ”I suppose you could draw on that?”

McEwen could not be got to give a plain answer. It wasn't near enough, anyhow; not near. The evasion seemed to Anderson purposeless; the mere s.h.i.+fting and doubling that comes of long years of dishonest living. And again the question stabbed his consciousness--were his children justified in casting him so inexorably adrift?

”Well, I'd better run down and have a look,” he said at last. ”If it's a good thing I dare say I can find you the dollars.”

”Run down--where?” asked McEwen sharply.

”To the mine, of course. I might spare the time next week.”

”No need to trouble yourself. My pardners wouldn't thank me for betraying their secrets.”

”Well, you couldn't expect me to provide the money without knowing a bit more about the property, could you?--without a regular survey?” said Anderson, with a laugh.

”You trust me with three or four thousand dollars,” said McEwen doggedly--”because I'm your father and I give you my word. And if not, you can let it alone. I don't want any prying into my affairs.”

Anderson was silent a moment.

Then he raised his eyes.

”Are you sure it's all square?” The tone had sharpened.

”Square? Of course it is. What are you aiming at? You'll believe any villainy of your old father, I suppose, just the same as you always used to. I've not had your opportunities, George. I'm not a fine gentleman--on the trail with a parcel of English swells. I'm a poor old broken-down miner, who wants to hole-up somewhere, and get comfortable for his old age; and if you had a heart in your body, you'd lend a helping hand. When I saw you at Winnipeg”--the tone became a trifle plaintive and slippery--”I ses to myself, George used to be a nice chap, with a good heart. If there's anyone ought to help me it's my own son.

And so I boarded that train. But I'm a broken man, George, and you've used me hard.”

”Better not talk like that,” interrupted Anderson in a clear, resolute voice. ”It won't do any good. Look here, father! Suppose you give up this kind of life, and settle down. I'm ready to give you an allowance, and look after you. Your health is bad. To speak the truth, this mine business sounds to me pretty shady. Cut it all! I'll put you with decent people, who'll look after you.”

The eyes of the two men met; Anderson's insistently bright, McEwen's wavering and frowning. The June suns.h.i.+ne came into the small room through a striped and battered blind, illuminating the rough planks of which it was built, the ”cuts” from ill.u.s.trated papers that were pinned upon them, the scanty furniture, and the untidy bed. Anderson's head and shoulders were in a full mellowed light; he held himself with an unconscious energy, answering to a certain force of feeling within; a proud strength and sincerity expressed itself through every detail of att.i.tude and gesture; yet perhaps the delicacy, or rather sensibility, mingling with the pride, would have been no less evident to a seeing eye. There was Highland blood in him, and a touch therefore of the Celtic responsiveness, the Celtic magnetism. The old man opposite to him in shadow, with his back to the light, had a crouching dangerous look.

It was as though he recognised something in his son for ever lost to himself; and repulsed it, half enviously, half malignantly.

But he did not apparently resent Anderson's proposal. He said sulkily: ”Oh, I dessay you'd like to put me away. But I'm not doddering yet.”

All the same he listened in silence to the plan that Anderson developed, puffing the while at the pipe which he had made Mrs. Ginnell give him.

”I shan't stay on this side,” he said, at last, decidedly. ”There's a thing or two that might turn up agin me--and fellows as 'ud do me a bad turn if they come across me--dudes, as I used to know in Dawson City. I shan't stay in Canada. You can make up your mind to that. Besides, the winter'ud kill me!”

Anderson accordingly proposed San Francisco, or Los Angeles. Would his father go for a time to a Salvation Army colony near Los Angeles?

Anderson knew the chief officials--capital men, with no cant about them.

Fruit farming--a beautiful climate--care in sickness--no drink--as much work or as little as he liked--and all expenses paid.

McEwen laughed out--a short sharp laugh--at the mention of the Salvation Army. But he listened patiently, and at the end even professed to think there might be something in it. As to his own scheme, he dropped all mention of it. Yet Anderson was under no illusion; there it lay sparkling, as it were, at the back of his sly wolfish eyes.