STIRLING LETS THINGS SLIDE
It was early evening when Weston swung himself down from the platform of the Colonist car in a little roadside station shut in by the pine bush of Ontario. There was a wooden hotel beside the track, and one or two stores; but that was all, and the fact that nobody except the station-agent had appeared to watch the train come in testified to the industry, or, more probably, the loneliness of the district. While Weston stood looking about him a man came out of the office, and he was somewhat astonished to find himself face to face with his employer.
The smart straw hat and light summer suit did not become the contractor. He was full-fleshed and red of face, and the artistically cut garments striped in soft colors conveyed a suggestion of ease and leisure which seemed very much out of place on him. One could not imagine this man lounging on a sunlit beach, or discoursing airily on a cool veranda.
“Got here,” he said abruptly, and then swung around and looked at Grenfell. “This is the other man? Well, he can stay and bring along the baggage. There’s most a freight-car full. They’ll give him a wagon and team at the hotel.”
He indicated a great pile of trunks and cases with a wave of his hand, and, seeing Weston’s astonishment, added with a twinkle in his eyes:
“My daughter and her friends are camping. They have to have these things.”
Weston understood his employer’s smile. This, he recognized, was a man who could be content with essential things, and in all probability had at one time esteemed himself fortunate when he succeeded in obtaining them.
“Hadn’t I better help him load them up?” he asked.
“No,” said Stirling, with a curtness at which Weston could not take offense. “He can put in the evening that way if it’s necessary. It will supple him, and I guess he needs it. I have a rig ready. You’re coming along with me.”
Weston took his place in the light, four-wheeled vehicle, and found it difficult to keep it, for the trail was villainous, and Stirling drove rapidly. Their way led between shadowy colonnades of towering firs, and the fragile, two-seated frame bounced and lurched into and out of deep ruts, and over the split trees that had been laid flat-side downward in the quaggy places—like a field gun going into action was the best comparison Weston could think of. The horses, however, kept their feet, and the wheels held fast. Once, when a jolt nearly pitched him from his seat, Stirling laughed.