“Fortunately no. Young Macgregor at the Fort has them.”
“Then I wonder if they are here. John, find out from the Inspector yonder where the pipes are. We will be wanting them this evening.”
To her husband's inquiry the Inspector replied that if Macgregor ever had the pipes it was a moral certainty that he had carried them with him to the raising, “for it is my firm belief,” he added, “that he sleeps with them.”
“Do go and see now, like a dear man,” said Mrs. Cochrane to Cameron.
From group to group of the workers Cameron went, exchanging greetings, but persistently seeking to discover the originator of the raising bee. But all in vain, and in despair he came back to his wife with the question “Who is this Smith, anyway?”
“Mr. Smith,” she said with deliberate emphasis, “is my friend, my particular friend. I found him a friend when I needed one badly.”
“Yes, but who is he?” inquired Moira, who, with Mr. Dent in attendance, had sauntered up. “Who is he, Mr. Dent? Do you know?”
“No, not from Adam's mule. He's old Thatcher's man. That's all I know about him.”
“He is Mr. Thatcher's man? Oh!” said Moira, “Mr. Thatcher's servant.” A subtle note of disappointment sounded in her voice.
“Servant, Moira?” said Allan in a shocked tone. “Wipe out the thought. There is no such thing as servant west of the Great Lakes in this country. A man may help me with my work for a consideration, but he is no servant of mine as you understand the term, for he considers himself just as good as I am and he may be considerably better.”