"A proper line to take with an outsider like myself; but I know you were turned out of the army for a fault you did not commit."

Blake's face set sternly. "It's hard to understand how you arrived at that flattering conclusion."

"I won't explain, but I'm convinced of its correctness," Clarke rejoined, watching him. "One would imagine that the most important matter is that you were driven out of a calling you liked and were sent here, ruined in repute and fortune. Are you satisfied with your lot?

Haven't you the courage to insist upon being reinstated?"

"My reinstation would be difficult," Blake said curtly.

He would have left the house only that he was curious to learn where the other's suggestions led and how much he knew. There was a moment's silence, and then Clarke went on--

"A young man of ability, with means and influence behind him, has a choice of careers in England, and there's another point to be considered: you might wish to marry. That, of course, is out of the question now."

"It will, no doubt, remain so," Blake replied with the colour creeping into his set face.

"Then you have given up all idea of clearing yourself? The thing may be easier than you imagine if properly handled." Clarke paused and added significantly: "In fact I could show you a way in which the matter could be straightened out without causing serious trouble to anybody concerned; that is, if you are disposed to take me into your confidence."

Blake got up, filled with anger and uneasiness. He had no great faith in Harding's scheme; his life as a needy adventurer had its trials, and it had been cunningly hinted that he could change it when he liked, but he had no intention of doing so. This was an old resolve, but it was disconcerting to feel that an unscrupulous fellow was anxious to meddle with his affairs, for Clarke had obviously implied the possibility of putting some pressure upon Colonel Challoner. Blake shrank from the suggestion. It was not to be thought of.

"I have nothing more to say on the subject," he answered sternly. "It must be dropped."

Somewhat to his surprise, Clarke acquiesced good-humouredly, after a keen glance at him.

"As you wish," he said. "However, that needn't prevent my giving you the directions I promised, particularly as it may help me to earn fifty dollars. I believe Benson spent some time with you this morning; are you taking him?"

Blake started. He wondered how the man could have guessed, but he admitted that Benson was going.

"You may find him a drag, but that's your affair," said Clarke in a tone of indifference. "Now sit down and make a careful note of what I tell you."

Believing that the information might be of service, Blake did as he was told, and then took his leave. When he had gone, Clarke sat still for a time with a curious smile. Blake had firmly declined to be influenced by his hints, but Clarke had half expected this, and what he had learned about the young man's character cleared the ground.

CHAPTER X

BENSON GIVES TROUBLE

It was nearly dark when Blake and Harding led two packhorses through a thin spruce wood, with Benson lagging a short distance behind. They had spent some time crossing a wide stretch of rolling country, dotted with clumps of poplar and birch, which was still spa.r.s.ely inhabited, and now they had reached the edge of the timber belt that cuts off the prairie from the desolate barrens. The spruces were gnarled and twisted by the wind, a number of them were dead, and many of the rest leaned unsymmetrically athwart each other. The straggling wood had no beauty and in the fading light wore a dreary, forbidding look.

Fortunately, however, it was thin enough for the travellers to pick their way among the fallen branches and patches of muskeg, for the ground was marsh and their feet sank among the withered needles.

By and by Blake checked his pony and waited until Benson came up. The man moved with a slack heaviness and his face was worn and tense. He was tired with the journey, for excess had weakened him, and now the l.u.s.t for drink which he had stubbornly fought against had grown overwhelming.

"I can go no faster. Push on and I'll follow your tracks," he said in a surly tone. "It takes time to get into condition, and I haven't walked much for several years."

"Neither have I," Harding answered cheerfully "I'm more used to riding in elevators and the street cars, but this sort of thing soon makes you fit."

"You're not troubled with my complaint," Benson rejoined, and when Blake started the pony deliberately dropped behind.

"He's in a black mood; we'll leave him to himself," Harding remarked.

"So far he's braced up better than I expected, but when a man's been tanking steadily, it's pretty drastic to put him through the total deprivation cure."

"I wonder," Blake said thoughtfully, "whether it is a cure; we have both seen men who made some effort to save themselves go down. Though I'm a long way from being a philanthropist, I hate this waste of good material. Perhaps it's partly an economic objection, because I used to get savage in India when any of the Tommies' lives were thrown away by careless handling."

"It was your soldiers' business to be made use of, wasn't it?"

"Yes," said Blake, frowning; "but there's a difference between that and the other thing. It's the needless waste of life and talent that annoys me. On the frontier, we spent men freely, which is the best word for it, because we tried to get something in return; a rebel hill fort seized, a raid turned back. If Benson had killed himself in breaking a horse or by an accident with a harvesting machine, one couldn't complain; but to see him do so with whisky is another matter."

Harding nodded. Blake was not given to serious conversation; indeed, he was rather casual, as a rule, but Harding, who was shrewd, saw beneath the surface a love of order, and what he thought of as constructive ability.

"I guess you're right, but your speaking of India, reminds me of something I want to mention. I've been thinking over what Clarke said to you. His game's obvious, and it might have been a profitable one.

He wanted you to help him in squeezing Colonel Challoner."

"He knows now that he applied to the wrong man."

"That's so; it's my point. Suppose the fellow goes to work without you? It looks as if he'd learned enough to make him dangerous."

"He can do nothing. Let him trump up any plausible theory he likes; it won't stand for a moment after I deny it."

"True," said Harding gravely. "But if you were out of the way, he'd have a free hand. Since you wouldn't join him you're a serious obstacle."

Blake laughed. "I'm glad I am, and as I come of a healthy stock there's reason to believe I'll continue one."

Harding said nothing more, and they went on in silence through the gathering darkness The spruces were losing shape and getting blacker, though through openings here and there they could see a faint line of smoky red on the horizon. A cold wind wailed among the branches, and the thud of the tired horses' feet rang dully among the shadowy trunks.

At length, reaching a strip of higher ground, the men pitched camp and turned out the hobbled horses to graze among the swamp gra.s.s that lined a muskeg. After supper they sat beside their fire, and by and by Benson took his pipe from his mouth.

"I've had enough of this, and I'm only a drag on you," he said. "Give me grub enough to see me through, and I'll start back for the settlement first thing in the morning."

"Don't be a fool," Blake said sharply. "You'll get harder and feel the march less every day. Are you willing to let Clarke get hold of you again?"

"I don't want to go. I'm driven; I can't help myself."

Blake felt sorry for him. He imagined that Benson had made a hard fight, but he was being beaten by his craving. Still, it seemed unwise to show any sympathy.

"You want to wallow like a hog for two or three days that you'll regret all your life," he said. "You have your chance of breaking free now.

Be a man and take it. Hold out a little longer and you'll find it easier."

Benson regarded him with a mocking smile. "I'm inclined to think the jag you so feelingly allude to will last a week; that is, if I can raise dollars enough from Clarke to keep it up. You mayn't understand that I'm willing to barter all my future for it."

"Yes," said Harding grimly; "we understand all right. Yours is not a singular case; the trouble is that it's too common. But we'll quit talking about it. You can't go."

He was in no mood to handle the subject delicately; they were alone in the wilds and the situation made for candour. There was only one way in which they could help the man and he meant to take it. Benson turned to him angrily.

"Your permission's not required; I'm a free man."

"Are you?" Harding asked. "It strikes me as a very curious boast.

Improving the occasion's a riling thing, but there was never a slave in Dixie tighter bound than you."

"That's an impertinence," Benson rejoined, flushing, as unsatisfied longing drove him to fury. "What business is it of yours to preach to me? Confound you! who are you? I tell you I won't have it. Give me food enough to last until I reach Sweet.w.a.ter and let me go."