At the Kenora Hotel corner his low whistle brought two men from the saloon.
The three conversed together earnestly for a few moments, then they separated to different positions in the shadows but commanding a full view of the road leading down the hill from the east of the Main Street of Vernock.
But of all this Eileen Pederstone––alone in the little bungalow up on the hill––was blissfully ignorant.
CHAPTER III
At Pederstone’s Forge
Pederstone the blacksmith––or, to give him his full name which he insisted on at all times, John Royce Pederstone––was busy on his anvil, turning a horse shoe. His sleeves were rolled up almost to his shoulders and his lithe muscles slipped and rippled under his white skin in a rhythm of harmony. His broad chest was bare as his arms, and his chubby apple-red cheeks shone with perspiration which oozed from his every pore. He was singing to himself in happy unconcern about his being a jovial monk contented with his lot. Two horses were tied inside the shop waiting to be shod, chafing and pawing in their impatience.
Pederstone’s right-hand man, Sol Hanson, a great chunk of a bachelor Swede, was at the back door swearing volubly because an iron tire refused to fit the wooden rim of a cart wheel to his satisfaction.