And yet, for all the face showed of weakness, King was at once struck by the intensity and the unswerving directness of his gaze when Keith McBain turned to look at him. At first there seemed to be a shadow of suspicion in the grizzled old face, but King could not help observing the slow change to something almost kindly that showed deep in the old man's eyes as he got up and extended his hand.
"Come and sit down," he said. "The girl told me you were coming. She's off somewhere in the hills after berries—come and sit down."
When they had talked a little King was so much moved by the note of pathos that crept into the voice of Keith McBain that he determined at once to share with him the news that he had received only the night before. Evidently Old Silent was in a pensive mood, and King inwardly longed for someone to whom he could speak concerning what had lain heavily on his heart all day.
For a long time after King had spoken, Keith McBain sat without uttering a word.
"Aye, boy, you've suffered a great loss," he said at last, and his gaze was straight before him towards the hill-tops in the distance. As he continued he seemed to be talking to himself rather than to King. "It's hard for men to know what a thing like this means until they have tasted it themselves. For years I have gone out in the morning with men when the light was scarce showing through the swamp and have come in again at night tired after the work of the day to sleep—and make ready for the next day. And I've watched them—all ready for the 'roll out' when the call came at daybreak. And I've marvelled at their punctuality—and their willingness. And then a day would come when one of them wouldn't be in his place. He'd heard the call but couldn't go out. And later—perhaps a few days just—he didn't hear it—and the rest of us were quieter for a while—a little less given to talking; and then things went on very much as usual and we forgot. It's very good to forget."
King was pleased with the complete freedom from restraint that now marked the old man's manner. He talked well, with the merest trace of Scotch accent recognizable in the way he rolled his r's. He paused a moment and King made no attempt to interrupt. Finally he began again.
"Aye—it's good to forget—when you can. But there are times when a man can't forget—not altogether. You and I know that, my boy—we know it too well. And we won't talk about it either—except to mention it in passing. And in passing I want to say that I am very sorry. Where's the use trying to say more—a man can't."
He tapped his pipe gently against his hand and went leisurely about the task of filling it again.
"A straight man—and a clean man," he said gently, "is a rare enough article. As men go, I haven't seen many that could answer to that description. The world is full of good women, my boy—I've seen a few they told me weren't straight and weren't clean, but I've never known any such myself—though I've known a lot of women, too. But the men I've known—"
He paused as if in contemplation of how he should express most effectively what was on his mind. In the interval of silence there was a sound of excited voices and hurried footsteps coming down the path towards the cabin. Looking up King recognized the two men approaching as the camp cook and his assistant. Their differences had apparently reached a head, and they were coming to thresh the matter out before the boss.