CHAPTER VII
LOCOMOTIVE 99
The millionaire was seated close to the open window of the luxurious Pullman car that waited in Macleod Station. He was looking across the platform at a tall man in a red tunic.
"Fine, handsome chaps, these North-West Mounted Police," he remarked to his fellow-passenger. "Look, Colonel, look at that one on the platform! Quite a picture of soldierly bearing; fit to be an officer in the Guards so far as outward appearance goes! Just a trifle too tidy, perhaps; too consciously elegant; too much as if he were intended as an ornament rather than for serious active service. There's not a crease or a flaw in his scarlet tunic, see! Hat set on at the right angle, not a strap out of place or a button that doesn't shine enough to dazzle your eyes. Even the way he carries his overcoat and holds his carbine in the crook of his arm makes one think he'd studied the effect in front of a looking-glass. Indeed, the only departure from military precision that I can detect is his wearing his chin-strap at the back of his head instead of in the regulation manner."
There was no response to these criticisms, and the millionaire went on after taking one or two puffs at his very large cigar—
"Do you suppose, now, Colonel, that he could do any serious business with that service revolver of his? You'd think by the cartridges in his bandolier that it was intended for use. And do you suppose that a dandy such as he is could do any real good in a scrimmage?"
The passenger on the other side of the dining-table sipped at his cup of black coffee.
"I don't only suppose, Sir George," he answered slowly, glancing out through the open window. "I happen to know. The man you're looking at isn't always dressed as if he had just come out of a bandbox to parade his elegance and his good figure on a railroad platform. I have seen him looking very different, riding out on the lone patrol. If he is clean and tidy now, it is because he hates slovenliness of any kind, and, perhaps, too, because he likes to hide the fact that the one purpose of his existence is to do his duty with efficiency. You ask if he could do any serious business with his revolver. My dear Sir George, that chap is considered the best shot in all Canada. He is that, just as surely as he is the best all-round scout, the best rider, and the bravest man in the Dominion. I could tell you a lot about him, but I see by the twinkle in his eye that he knows we are talking of him, and he hates to be noticed. Ah, he's coming this way."
Sir George produced his box of cigars as the soldier policeman strode across the platform towards the waiting cars. The Colonel rose from his seat and leant his elbows on the frame of the window.
"How d'you do, Sergeant Silk?" he said in greeting, extending his hand. "Say, it seems queer to see you on foot and not in the saddle. You're off duty, I suppose?"