For all that, Kit sometimes brooded. If he remained until the bridge was built he would not be rich, and his ambition was not to help a smith. Moreover, he feared when the frost began the company would pay him off, and in the North winter work was hard to get. Then he had promised he would not, for a stipulated time, write to Evelyn. She would be anxious for him, and since he had work, of a sort, he wanted her to know.
Sometimes he speculated about Alison. She was at Fairmead, and although the settlement was not far off, it was on another line. Kit did not know if she would stay for long, and when he put her on the car at Winnipeg he felt they said good-bye for good. All the same, he was sorry. Alison was a first-class pal; but she was gone, and he was Evelyn’s lover and must concentrate on mending his broken fortunes.
When dusk began to fall one evening, he put up his violin and lighted his pipe. The men had gone to the bunk-house and all was quiet. Kit heard the current break against the piers, and in the distance cow-bells faintly chimed. He thought about the river that ran by the oaks at Netherhall. Somehow when he pictured Netherhall it was summer afternoon, and Evelyn and he walked in the shade. The cow-bells, however, struck a foreign note, and when Kit heard mosquitoes he frowned.
By and by Austin came along the track. He was an athletic young fellow, but his look was thoughtful. Kit began to think the Canadians’ habit was to concentrate. None he so far knew was remarkably light-hearted.
“I heard you play,” said Austin. “You have some talent; but for a construction camp, was not the music rather good?”
“The boys did not grumble. My notion is, uncultivated people like better music than some composers think. Anyhow, I risked it. I don’t know that I have much talent, but two or three Canadians informed me that I have some gall.”
Austin smiled, for he thought the compliment justified. In a rather stern country, Kit’s joyous carelessness struck a foreign note. Then he was independent, and North American democracy cultivates a type. All the same, Austin noted that when he began to talk Kit got up. Since work had stopped, Austin did not want the other to acknowledge him boss, and he sat down and lighted a cigarette.
“Well, Bill wants to keep you, and he’s pretty fastidious about his helpers. I don’t know what you think about staying; but I don’t know your proper occupation.”
Kit hesitated. Austin was friendly, but Kit did not want to use his friendliness. He admitted he was perhaps extravagantly proud.
“When I arrived I was a strolling musician and was glad to fiddle for my supper,” he said. “So long as Bill thinks me useful, I’m satisfied to remain.”