“To Agent, Anson’s Forks station:
“Provide Mr. Weston with whatever he may require in the shape of blankets, provisions, and any sundries in your stock for a prospecting trip.”
A sheet of paper had been laid beside it, and Weston’s face flushed as he read, “Won’t you accept this with the good wishes of your late companions?”
It was evidently from Miss Stirling, for it was a woman’s writing, and he did not think an Englishwoman would have said “Won’t you,” as she had done. He could recognize the delicacy with which she had refrained from offering him money, or even stipulating any definite sum in the order, and it was evident that she had taken some trouble to arrange the matter with the H. B. C. agent at Vancouver. The thing had been done in kindness, and yet it hurt him. He could have accepted it more readily from anybody else. On the other hand, he remembered that she had known him only as a track-grader, and that he was, as a matter of fact, nothing else. He could not send the order back without appearing ungracious or disposed to assert that he was of her own station. Then another thought struck him.
“I don’t think they knew my name. They called me Clarence,” he said. “Somebody must have thought it worth while to write Cassidy.”
He had forgotten his companions, and when Grenfell looked at him inquiringly, he laughed.
“It’s something I was thinking of,” he said, handing the order across. Grenfell gazed at it with unqualified satisfaction.
“This straightens everything out,” he said.
“I’m not quite sure it does,” returned Weston, dryly. “In fact in some respects it rather complicates the thing. That, however, is a point that doesn’t concern you.”
His companion, who appeared to concur in this, glanced with evident regret at the six dollars which still lay beside him.
“If I’d known that the order was in the mail, the boys would have had to carry me every rod of the way back to camp,” he said. “It’s not the first time that I’ve been sorry I practiced economy.”