CHAPTER XX.
Dreary enough were the next few days for the adventurous troop, as they wended their way westward. The sky was heavily clouded, while a gusty wind blew the pellety snow into the faces of the men and women as they walked or drove over their destined route. Drifts filled the sleigh tracks, and the packing of the road by those who took the lead was a weary business. Progress was slower than ever, accommodations along the line absent, and general camping again became a feature of the journey.
"What place have we here?" Sir George asked of his new driver on the evening of the fifth day from Montreal as they called a halt in the vicinity of two or three little cabins.
"They call it Sparksville," was the reply, "after a fellow named Sparks. He lives in the village of Hull across the river there. They say he bought it from the Government for a song, and has made his money out of sales already."
"So these shantymen are the owners," said the Colonel.
"No, siree, the lumbermen from Montreal bought from Sparks, these men only cut the timber."
"And splendid stuff they've got if these pieces are samples."
"You bet your last pound," returned the man, with the easy nonchalance of a westerner, "Montrealers wouldn't put their money into it if there wasn't a good chance of getting it out again. What's more, they say this is a splendid site for the building of a big city."
"Are these shanties the only buildings on this side of the river?" Sir George asked.
"Yes, 'cepting a little sawmill down in the hollow and a cabin beside it."