‘Yes, that is exactly what I do mean.’
‘He is great man, that Craig fellow—a truly great man.’
And then he leaned up against a tree and laughed till the tears came. ‘I say, old boy, don’t mind me,’ he gasped, ‘but do you remember the old ‘Varsity show?’
‘Yes, you villain; and I remember your part in it. I wonder how you can, even at this remote date, laugh at it.’ For I had a vivid recollection of how, after a ‘chaste and highly artistic performance of this mediaeval play’ had been given before a distinguished Toronto audience, the trap door by which I had entered my box was fastened, and I was left to swelter in my cage, and forced to listen to the suffocated laughter from the wings and the stage whispers of ‘Hello, Mr. Punch, where’s the baby?’ And for many a day after I was subjected to anxious inquiries as to the locality and health of ‘the baby,’ and whether it was able to be out.
‘Oh, the dear old days!’ he kept saying, over and over, in a tone so full of sadness that my heart grew sore for him and I forgave him, as many a time before.
The sports passed off in typical Western style. In addition to the usual running and leaping contests, there was rifle and pistol shooting, in both of which old man Nelson stood first, with Shaw, foreman of the mines, second.
The great event of the day, however, was to be the four-horse race, for which three teams were entered—one from the mines driven by Nixon, Craig’s friend, a citizens’ team, and Sandy’s. The race was really between the miners’ team, and that from the woods, for the citizens’ team, though made up of speedy horses, had not been driven much together, and knew neither their driver nor each other. In the miners’ team were four bays, very powerful, a trifle heavy perhaps, but well matched, perfectly trained, and perfectly handled by their driver. Sandy had his long rangy roans, and for leaders a pair of half-broken pinto bronchos. The pintos, caught the summer before upon the Alberta prairies, were fleet as deer, but wicked and uncertain. They were Baptiste’s special care and pride. If they would only run straight there was little doubt that they would carry the roans and themselves to glory; but one could not tell the moment they might bolt or kick things to pieces.
Being the only non-partisan in the crowd I was asked to referee. The race was about half a mile and return, the first and last quarters being upon the ice. The course, after leaving the ice, led up from the river by a long easy slope to the level above; and at the further end curved somewhat sharply round the Old Fort. The only condition attaching to the race was that the teams should start from the scratch, make the turn of the Fort, and finish at the scratch. There were no vexing regulations as to fouls. The man making the foul would find it necessary to reckon with the crowd, which was considered sufficient guarantee for a fair and square race. Owing to the hazards of the course, the result would depend upon the skill of the drivers quite as much as upon the speed of the teams. The points of hazard were at the turn round the Old Fort, and at a little ravine which led down to the river, over which the road passed by means of a long log bridge or causeway.
From a point upon the high bank of the river the whole course lay in open view. It was a scene full of life and vividly picturesque. There were miners in dark clothes and peak caps; citizens in ordinary garb; ranchmen in wide cowboy hats and buckskin shirts and leggings, some with cartridge-belts and pistols; a few half-breeds and Indians in half-native, half-civilised dress; and scattering through the crowd the lumbermen with gay scarlet and blue blanket coats, and some with knitted tuques of the same colours. A very good-natured but extremely uncertain crowd it was. At the head of each horse stood a man, but at the pintos’ heads Baptiste stood alone, trying to hold down the off leader, thrown into a frenzy of fear by the yelling of the crowd.
Gradually all became quiet, till, in the midst of absolute stillness, came the words, ‘Are you ready?’, then the pistol-shot and the great race had begun. Above the roar of the crowd came the shrill cry of Baptiste, as he struck his broncho with the palm of his hand, and swung himself into the sleigh beside Sandy, as it shot past.