He moved off with his team and went on with his work all day, but when night came he attended, by special invitation, a meeting held in a tent that flapped and strained in the boisterous wind. Half a dozen men were present, steady and rather grim toilers with saw and shovel, and though two or three had been born in Ontario, all were of Scottish extraction. Their hard faces wore a singularly resolute expression when Kermode entered.
“Boys,” he said, “before we begin I’d better mention that taking a part in a church assembly is a new thing to me.”
One or two of them frowned at this: his levity was not in keeping with the occasion.
“Ye’re here, and we’ll listen to your opinion, if ye hae one,” said their leader. “Jock is for raiding Mitcham’s shack and firing him and the other scoundrel out of camp.”
“I see objections. Mitcham has a good many friends, and if he held you off, you’d have made a row for nothing, besides compromising Mr. Ferguson.”
“There’s reason in that,” another remarked.
“Then,” continued Kermode, “you can’t connect Mitcham with the wrecking of your church.”
“I’m thinking the connection’s plain enough for us. Weel, we ken——”
“Knowing a thing is not sufficient; you want proof, and if you go ahead without it, you’ll put yourselves in the wrong. This is not the time to alienate popular sympathy.”
“Weel,” said the leader, “hae ye a plan?”