It was some time later when, one day of early winter, he sat in his wooden shanty, which at that season replaced the tent above the cañon. Close by English Jim was busy writing, and Geoffrey, gnawing an unlighted pipe, glanced alternately through the open door at his hurrying workmen and at the letter from Thomas Savine which he held in his hand.
The letter expressed a fear that a financial crisis was imminent. "Tell him he must settle all local bills up to the minute," said Thurston, throwing it across to his amanuensis. "I daresay the English makers will wait a little for payment due on machinery. Did you find that the amount I mentioned would cover the wages through the winter?"
"Only just," was the answer. "That is, unless you could cut some of them a little."
"Not a cent," Geoffrey replied. "The poor devils who risk their lives daily fully earn their money."
"Do you know their wages equal the figure the strikers demanded and you refused to pay? Summers told me about that dispute, sir," ventured English Jim.
"The strikers were not prepared to earn higher pay—and that one word, 'demanded,' makes a big difference. Hello! who is the stranger?"
Mattawa Tom was directing a horseman towards the shanty, and Geoffrey, who watched the newcomer with growing interest, found something familiar in his face and figure, until he rose up in astonishment when the man rode nearer.
"Halliday, by all that's wonderful!" he cried. "Uncommonly glad to see you; but whatever brought you back to this far-off land again?"
"Several things," was the answer, as Halliday, shaking the snow from his furs, dismounted stiffly. "Strain of overwork necessitated a change, my doctor told me. Trust estate I'm winding up comprised doubtful British Columbian mining interests, and last, but not least, to see you, Geoffrey."
The man's fur coat was open now, and Geoffrey, who glanced at the black coat beneath it, said: