"Pine, can you trust me?"
"Ugh!" But the grunt was affirmative.
"Smoke on it, Tough?"
And they smoked while they plodded wearily back into bondage.
CHAPTER XIII
Little corners, lying on the borderland of Canada and the States, stretched like a hand, the thumb and small finger of which belonged to the Dominion, the three digits, in between, to the sister country. Of course it was comparatively easy to bring merchandise, and what not, by way of the thumb and little finger and send the same forth by the three exits, known to Timothy Goodale as "furrin parts." Timothy was excessively British, as so many Canadians are, but he was a broad-minded man in his sympathies, and a friend to all—when it paid. He was a man of keen perceptions, of conveniently short memory, and had the capacity for giving a lie all the virtuous appearance of truth and frankness. Goodale had no family, and, as far as possible, served his guests himself. A half-breed cooked for him; a half-witted French-Canadian girl did unimportant tasks about the bedchambers, but the host himself took his patrons into his own safekeeping and their secrets along with them.
Little Corners was not a town of savoury reputation. Law-abiding folks gave it a wide berth; tourists found nothing interesting there, and newcomers, of a permanent type, were discouraged. For these reasons it was the place of all places for Mr. John Boswell to enter, by way of the long, middle finger, and meet Priscilla Glenn, who advanced via the thumb. No one would know them; no one would remember them an hour after they departed.
Timothy was bustling about on a certain Sunday morning, ruminating on the thanklessness of the task of getting ready for people who might never appear, when, to his delight, he saw a team of weary horses advancing. He had time only to put his features in order for business when a man entered the room.
No one but Goodale could have taken the shock of the traveller's personality in just the way he did. The smile froze on his face, his eyes beamed, and his stiff, red hair seemed bristling with welcome. "Advance agent of a circus," he thought; "sort of advertising guy."