“So it is,” MacDowell affirmed. “This is exceptional heat. You can go a long piece before you’ll find a town whose situation, general lay-out, and climate can even compare with this wonderful little town.”
“It’s funny, though,” rejoined Mauney, “how many knockers are to be found among its citizens. I’ve been here only a couple of weeks, and I’ve noticed that the lower and middle classes—for I think the divisions are pretty distinct—are constantly fault-finding and grouching.”
“No doubt, no doubt,” MacDowell nodded, while his face reassumed the special enthusiastic expression which he always wore when praising his town. “Let them talk! But I’m going to tell you, Mr. Bard, that this town, out of the whole province, has, without exception, the most brilliant future before it. Some day you’re going to see that river alive with commerce and our harbor crowded with freighters. The population is going to jump up, internal trade will flourish, the community will become permanently prosperous. And all this, once some big industry sees the advantage of locating here. It’s no myth. It’s bound to come.”
Mauney liked the big man for his enthusiasm. He was inspired, as most people were who talked with MacDowell, by a new belief in Lockwood. After all, why should it not grow and prosper and become a city? There was the river, indeed; that great, potential artery of commerce, with its undeveloped water-power. And here was Lockwood, sure enough, strategically situated, and upon the very brink of an undeniably great future. Some personal magnetism of his host had conjured up the vision before him and taught him faith. He felt all at once a deep respect for the masterly man who, at this moment, although unnoticed, was smiling slyly at Mauney’s serious face. MacDowell was at last clear to him: he was remaining in Lockwood because of his faith. He was tied to the old town by invisible bonds of strong affection and belief. Let them talk! Here was an heroic figure, a man of brave judgment and great dreams. Mauney could not have been persuaded, just then, that his hero’s dream was simply a lifelong adoration of Gloria Smith, and that his skilful role was but the disguise of a private loyalty. Later he would learn, perhaps, that MacDowell was, of all municipal students, the most confirmed pessimist, but that would never hinder him from liking the genial man and feeling that in some degree he redeemed Freda’s home from hopeless frigidity.
At last Freda came out of the house, and seemed surprised to see Mauney. While they were talking her father interrupted good-naturedly.
“Look here, you folks, why don’t you take out the canoe for a paddle along the shore?”
“You have a very fertile imagination, Dad,” said Freda.
“Yes,” he agreed dryly, “and a desperate determination not to be ousted from this verandah.”
His suggestion was adopted, and together they crossed the rough tableland to the steps leading down to the boat-house, exchanging not a word as they went.
“I telephoned last night, Freda,” Mauney said as he began to follow her down the steps.