"No doubt that is what fix means in England," Jack admitted, "but in Canada, to 'fix' a balky ox means, when everything else fails, to put an armful of hay under him and set fire to it. It does the trick."
"By Jove, that's a ripping idea! Now why couldn't I think of that? I suppose because I'm a greenhorn. I shall try it at the first opportunity."
Spoof retrieved a bundle of papers which had fallen out of his wagon box, and together we went up to the house. The girls were waiting in the shade at the eastern side of the shack; in their Sunday dresses of flimsy stuff appropriate to the hot weather they looked very sweet and charming.
"Ah, here are the ladies," said Spoof, and in his manner there was a touch of gallantry that in some way seemed foreign to either Jack or me. "Real prairie roses, and no mistake," as he took their hands in his. "It's jolly decent to ask a stranger over. All this out-of-doors; dawns, sunsets, sky, distance—all very fine, but it isn't good to be too much alone with it. Rather overwhelms one, don't you think?"
"I have felt that," said Jean, while Marjorie was fumbling for words. "It's too grand; it oppresses one. It's—it's all soul; no body."
"That's it—that's it!" Spoof agreed. "All soul—no body. I shall write that to the Governor. The Governor, dear old chap, thinks this country is rather a bit off the map. I have promised to shoot him a polar bear for Christmas, and he's quite looking forward to it. He writes to know if I find the native labor satisfactory, and can my man mix a decent whisky and soda. I must set his mind at rest. I let him think I run quite an establishment, you understand; he sends a cheque now and again, which, of course, bears a relationship to the position I am supposed to occupy in local society."
"Doesn't your conscience trouble you?" Marjorie queried, the conversation having swung into her orbit.
"Not at all. I am doing the Governor a kindness. He spends rather too much money on whisky and soda—particularly the former—so I am merely getting him interested in another kind of extravagance. A Younger Son is a very successful form of extravagance, don't you think? What is it Kipling says—'By the bitter road the Younger Son must tread,' or something like that? So why shouldn't the Governor sweeten the bitter road a little, and drink less whisky to his soda?"
While we were busy thinking of some appropriate remark Spoof remembered his bundle of papers.
"I ventured to bring these over," he said, tendering them to Jean. "Just some old copies of The Illustrated London News and The Graphic. There are some sketches by an artist showing his conception of homestead life. I rather suspect the Governor has let him read my letters."