“Now you're talkin', ma'am.” She had touched Mr. Sleighter's favourite theme. Indeed, the absorbing passion of his life, next to the picking up of good salvage bargains, was his home in the Foothill country of the West.
While he was engaged in an enthusiastic description of the glories of that wonderland the children came in and were presented. Mr. Gwynne handed his visitor his receipt and stood suggestively awaiting his departure. But Mr. Sleighter was fairly started on his subject and was not to be denied. The little girls drew shyly near him with eyes aglow while Mr. Sleighter's words roiled forth like a mountain flood. Eloquently he described the beauty of the rolling lands, the splendour of the mountains, the richness of the soil, the health-giving qualities of the climate, the warm-hearted hospitality of the settlers.
“None of your pin-head two-by-four shysters that you see here in the East,” exclaimed Mr. Sleighter. “I mean some folks, of course,” he explained in some confusion.
“And the children, did they like it?” inquired Mrs. Gwynne.
“You bet they did. Why, they was all over the hull prairie, all day and all night, too, mostly—on ponies you know.”
“Ponies!” exclaimed Larry. “Did they have ponies? Could they ride? How big are they?”
“How big? Blamed if I know. Let's see. There's Tom. He's just about a man, or thinks he is. He's sixteen or seventeen. Just now he's in the high school at Winnipeg. He don't like it though.” Here a shadow fell on Mr. Sleighter's face. “And the girls—there's Hazel, she's fifteen, and Ethel Mary, she's eleven or somewhere thereabouts. I never can keep track of them. They keep againin' on me all the time.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Gwynne. “It is hard to realise that they are growing up and will soon be away from us.”
“That's so,” said Mr. Sleighter.
“And the schools,” continued Mrs. Gwynne, “are there good schools?”