Donald told of being in the lunch-room when he had displayed his money, and of the waiter’s subsequent remarks.
“Huh!” snorted the big man disgustedly, “guess I need a guardeen.”
With the assistance of the obliging night-clerk, who furnished antiseptic and court-plaster, they patched the hurts of the much-bruised Westerner.
When the clerk left the room the big man turned to Donald. “My name’s Jack Gillis. What’s yours?”
“Donald McLean.”
“Damn good name,” he averred, looking Donald over critically.
“I bin visitin’ my old home in Nova Scotia,” he ran on. “Come down here to visit my sister. I’m gittin’ homesick for the Pacific Slope, and I’m goin’ to hit for B.C. to-morrow mornin’.”
“I’m on my way to Vancouver,” said Donald.
The effect of this statement on Gillis was electric. “Do you belong in B.C.?” he questioned excitedly.
Donald told him how his glowing description of that land of promise had induced him to go West, and that this would be his first visit to the Coast.