"Dear wife," he muttered, whose wife must have been dead full forty years, "this hulk is going to be laid up soon, in Rotten Row. Can't all of us founder in action."
I ran away. But then there was much to be done, fires, lights, supper, beds, and the unloading of the sleigh full of hospital comforts, which would set my patient a great deal more at ease.
When I left my patient, very late that night, supposing all lucky people to be in bed, I found Mr. Eure making himself some tea. Gladly I joined him beside the kitchen stove, ever so pleased with its warmth and the tea, for I was weary, past all hope of any sleep. Besides, the poor man was just dying with curiosity as to our journey and his engagement as my engineer. So, for that one and only time I told the story of Jesse's fate, and mine. The creature would stop me at times to check the pronunciation of words, or note the English manner of placing accents, his own odd way of showing sympathy.
And then I tried to explain the scheme which needed his services as an engineer.
"Let's see," he checked my rambling statement. "Try if I've got all that correct. This Cariboo wagon road runs from Ashcroft to Quesnelle, due north, except at one point where the government wouldn't pay for a bridge across the Hundred Mile gorge.
"So at the ninety-five-mile post the road swings eastward five miles, passing Spite House to the head of the gorge, where it crosses Hundred Mile Creek, right here.
"From here the road turns west again on the north side of the gorge, and after one mile on the level, drops down the Hundred Mile Hill, which is three miles high, and a terror to navigation.
"At the bottom the road turns north again for Quesnelle, at a cabin called the One Hundred and Four where old Pete Mathson lives, a hairy little person, like a Skye terrier with a faithful heart.
"And said Mathson has blazed a cut-off, crossing the foot of the gorge, then climbing by an easy grade to the ninety-five-mile post. The said cut-off is five miles long. Made into a wagon road, it would give a better gradient for traffic, save four miles, employ local labor at a season when money is scant, and be an all-round blessing to mankind. At the foot of the gorge we'd locate the new Hundred Mile House.
"Incidentally, Spite House would be side-tracked, left in the hungry woods four miles from nowhere."