"She was wise. Vancouver isn't a very big place yet, and the girl has more sense than you have. What did you say?"
"I'm afraid I lost my temper because there was nothing I could do."
Carroll grinned.
"There are limitations—even to the power of the dollar. You'll probably run up against more of them later on."
"I suppose so," yawned Vane. "Well, I'm going to sleep."
He rolled himself up in his blanket and lay down among the soft spruce twigs, but Carroll sat still in the darkness and smoked out his pipe. Then he glanced at his comrade, who lay still, breathing evenly.
"No doubt you'd be considered fortunate," he said, apostrophizing him half aloud. "You've had power and responsibility thrust upon you. What will you make of it?"
Then he, too, lay down, and only the soft splash of the tiny ripples broke the silence while the fire sank lower.
They sailed the next morning, and when they arrived in Victoria the boat which crossed the straits had gone, but the breeze was fair from the westward, and, after despatching a telegram, Vane sailed again. The sloop made a quick passage, and most of the time her passengers lounged in the sunshine on her gently slanted deck. It was evening when they ran through the Narrows into Vancouver's land-locked harbor and saw the roofs of the city rise tier on tier from the water-front. Somber forest crept down to the skirts of it, and across the glistening water black hills ran up into the evening sky, with the blink of towering snow to the north of them.
Half an hour later Vane landed his passengers, and it was not until he had left them that they discovered he had thrust a roll of paper currency into the little girl's hand. Then he and Carroll set off for the C.P.R. hotel, although they were not accustomed to a hostelry of that sort.