Stonor sat in his barrel chair that he had made himself, and Tole sat on the floor nursing his knees. Both were smoking Dominion mixture.
Said Tole: “Stonor, what you make of this Swan River mystery?”
“Oh, anything can be a mystery until you learn the answer. I don’t see why a man shouldn’t settle out on Swan River if he has a mind to.”
“Why do all the white men talk against him?”
“Don’t ask me. I doubt if they could tell you themselves. When men talk in a crowd they get started on a certain line and go on from bad to worse without thinking what they mean by it.”
“Our people just the same that way, I guess,” said Tole.
“I’m no better,” said Stonor. “I don’t know how it is, but fellows in a crowd seem to be obliged to talk more foolishly than they think in private.”
“You don’t talk against him, Stonor.”
The policeman laughed. “No, I stick up for him. It gets the others going. As a matter of fact, I’d like to know this Imbrie. For one thing, he’s young like ourselves, Tole. And he must be a decent sort, to cure the Indians, and all that. They’re a filthy lot, what we’ve seen of them.”
“Gaviller says he’s going to send an outfit next spring to rout him out of his hole. Gaviller says he’s a cash trader.”